Dance With Me
by PasDuTout
Summary: Forrest Bondurant had a habit of evading death. And sure as he'd survive, death would catch right back up with him again. To those who looked up to him, it was something of legend. To those who took care of him, it was something of a nuisance. Forrest/OC
1. Crazy Folks

**Fire In the Blood**

_-Sure as Death-_

It wasn't any kind of grand affair, the first time I laid eyes on Forrest Bondurant. No star-crossed swooning. No birds were singing. The clouds didn't part and light didn't shine down from the Heavens, some sort of divine intervention telling me _this is the one._ Well, I probably did think that at some point in those first few moments, but for no spectacularly romantic reason. Chances are, I was thinking _sure as there are snakes in the grass, this is the one that's a goner. _

Nothing was out of the ordinary, that morning. Just like every other day. Late spring heat slowly beginning to rise, heavy overcast trapping all the warmth and the moisture, making the air thick, heavy. Never sure if the liquid running down your face was from humidity or sweat. But the slightest breeze made it just right to bear. I'd been making my rounds, greeting folks with a good morning and opening their windows. Most rooms were empty, save for a few elderly and little Jimmy, who'd spent the night after having gone and fell right out of a tree, flat on his back. Foolish kid was lucky to be alive. No broken bones. But the doctor wanted to go ahead and keep him to make sure he hadn't messed up his insides or his head.

I could hear the motors before I could see the vehicles. An annoying succession of mechanical chugs that disrupted the quiet of nature, and the shrill blast of multiple horns that had me scowling at the blatant disrespect for this place of peace as I stood from my position at Jimmy's bedside. All I saw was a white coat come running past the doorway, tail trailing behind him from the wind of his speed. The Doctor never rushed like that. Nothing usually to be that hurried about, unless the bootleggers done fucked up again. I hadn't been there all that long, but I knew that there was some kind of war going on between them and the feds, just like everywhere else in this country since the damned prohibition. The moonshiners were frequents at this here little hospital.

I could hear the panicked shouts of many men, and soon the hollow stomp of boots on the wooden boards of the floor, and I knew my initial assumptions were right. Amidst the screaming and crying, it didn't take long at all for the Doctor to begin calling for his nurses, one by one, spouting off orders on how to keep the injured stable while he saw to them in order by priority of life. Someone had to be phoning in the other off-duty surgeon. It sounded like it was going to be a busy day.

I stood my ground, not ready to witness the massacre I was sure was waiting for me outside little Jimmy's room. But soon, my time to take the responsibility of a man's life had come. "Edie!" the Doctor need only yell my name once, and I was running, one leg in front of the other as I fastened my white apron tight behind my back.

The entrance hall reeked of smoke, liquor and blood, and for a moment I was shocked into a state of oblivion at the sight before me. Outlaws and officers alike littered the room, injured lying in an organized heap on the floor, while the few left unscathed and standing huddled over their familiars, some lending them words of comfort, others screaming in their unconscious faces for even thinking about letting themselves die. But for all the madness, there was no tension between the two groups. Maybe they'd set aside their differences in the aftermath of an unexpected tragedy. Maybe they were saving it for later.

"Edie." The Doctor's frantic voice drew me back into the present, and I turned to the man knelt to the ground on my right. The poor man looked a fright, as though it were taking every nerve in his body to hold on to his patience and his wits. His wide eyes moved quickly over the body of a man with multiple gunshot wounds to the abdomen, assessing the damage and forming a plan. He seemed to nod to himself, and then looked up at me. "Edie, I need you to take Mr. Bondurant here to room two. Lay him down, keep pressure on his wounds, and keep him awake. I have to address a neck wound, and then I'll be right in. You hear?"

I stared at him, for once in my life questioning the Doctor's motives. He would not be treating this man first? A shot to the neck seemed a sure death, but this man still had time. It was ticking quick, but a little was still there. A person could bleed out in twenty minutes through a laceration to the abdomen, and that was assuming the bullets had missed vital organs. Multiple gunshot wounds would be cutting his time down to single-digits, seconds, even. This man would die without immediate attention. Surely, he would die.

But the Doctor had made his decision and left me to follow his instructions, and I would not back down on my call to duty, no matter how grim and gruesome the outcome looked. I focused my attention on two gentlemen that had taken the place of the doctor upon his departure. They looked fit to cry, and were begging the man on the ground to hold onto life, apologizing for all the wrong they'd ever done him. Pleading with God to spare him yet again. "You," I said, my tone loud and full of authority, so they knew I was addressing them. They looked up at me, and the younger of the two had wet tears leaving streaks down his dirt-covered face. "I need the two of you to pick this man up here as carefully as you can, and follow me. You understand?"

There was a duet of mumbles in the form of "yes ma'am", and the two scooped up the injured man by the shoulders and the legs, struggling to stand under his weight, the younger wavering on the brink of collapsing more than several times. "Careful now," I said, and once I was convinced they had a proper hold on him, I turned on my heel, taking only a few steps down the hall and through an open door on the left, where I gathered a collection of towels from the ambry and met the two men bedside as they lay their friend against the white sheets. "All right now, you've done your part," I said, taking a pair of scissors off the top of the stack of towels, fitting the metal between my fingers. "You best be taking your leave."

"No, this here's my brother," the younger one said with strong determination. "I ain't going nowhere."

I sized the young'un up, wondering whether he'd be fit to stay and make himself useful, or be more of a nuisance than anything. My eyes traveled from his face down to his boots, and back up again just to make my intentions clear, and my heart rightly jumped in surprise when I had to do a double-take at the spreading bloodstain in the fabric of his shirt. "Sir, are you shot?" It was more of an accusation than a question.

He glanced down at his body, as though I'd only just reminded him of the perforation in his side. "I'm fine," he said lightly, pulling his shirt out of the brim of his pants to get a better look at the damage. Blood still trickled freely from the wound.

My eyes widened at the crazy behavior of these men. All of them, crazy. Trying to kill each other, over what? Alcohol? Coming in here, bleeding all over the place. Thinking they could just walk around, do some heavy lifting, like that wouldn't get them killed any easier than warring with the feds. "The hell you're fine!" I shouted, snapping my scissors dangerously close to his face. He withdrew in alarm, and so I advanced on him further. "You get on out there and you get yourself some help. Thick in the head if you think you can just stand there and die on my watch." Neither man moved, so I snapped my scissors at one, and shoved the face of the other toward the direction of the door. "The longer you stand there, the more time I spend on you instead of your brother. Go on now, go!"

Their movements were slow, begrudging, hesitating, but step by step I followed them until their bodies reached the other side of the door frame, and I slammed the door closed right behind them. Crazy sons of bitches. With a sigh, I focused my attention on the dying man, returning to his side, and immediately tore the outside sweater open, and began to trim a line right up the middle of his shirt. His breathing was labored, like he was trying to keep the rhythm slow and steady to remain calm, but could only push out small grunts and inhale soft whispers.

His eyes were opened and watching me closely, but I didn't look him in the face. Looking him in the face made him a person and not a body, and the body is what I had to attend to. Since he was going to die anyway, there was no use in remembering his face and feeling bad about it later. I parted the two halves of his shirt and glanced down very briefly at his torso. The vast surface of skin was bruising and stained with blood, the entry wounds just small dark holes among the thick smear of red.

I grabbed the towels and threw them down onto him in a quick, pathetic attempt to cover up the sight. I could feel my heart begin to race, pounding in my ears, and my face flushed hot. I wished life for this poor, hurting man, but it just didn't seem possible. And the prospect of watching him die under my hands left me fighting to hide my fear.

"What's your name, sir?" I asked him loudly, wondering if he could register words, or even hear me at all in his state. I hovered over him to position the towels in a thick layer over his wounds and repeated the question once more.

To my surprise he responded, but his answer only came in the form of vocalized consonants. I bent lower to try to hear him, but mouth-to-ear, I couldn't make out anything more than perhaps an 'R'. I straightened up, my eyes on my hands as I positioned them over a towel. "I'm sorry sir, but I can't understand a word you're saying. You'll have to speak up." I applied hard pressure to the wound low on his shoulder, and his reaction was immediate.

With an energy I wouldn't have figured possible to muster, he rejected the increased intensity of a new wave of pain fiercely, attempting to sit up as he growled through gritted teeth, "Goddamn, it's Forrest."

With a scowl, I put a hand to his forehead, forcing him back down into a plank position, and he submitted with an irritated, breathy groan in pain. "Do you want to die, Forrest? Because that's exactly what'll happen if you try that again," I scolded, taking the hand limp at his side to hold over the towels placed low on his abdomen. "Now make yourself useful and hold those there. Crazy, the lot of you. You know that?" I tutted my tongue as I returned to putting pressure on the high wound. "And I don't care if you're neck-deep in quicksand, who taught you to address a lady like that? Especially one trying to save your life."

He continued to watch me, and I began to wonder how he was still conscious at all. Lord knows how long he was hurt out there before arriving at this hospital, and the Doctor had to have taken at least a good ten minutes with the other man before entering the room, white coat splattered with red. He looked calm, surprisingly calm for someone who seemed to have just come out of what looked like performing an unsuccessful procedure. I stood back as he approached the man known as Forrest, searching him over with a shake of his head.

"Good to see you again, Bondurant," he announced with ironic familiarity. "You've got yourself all through-and-throughs but one, and they seem to have missed the vitals. But that last one on the left, it's gon' be tricky, and it's gon' be painful. What do you want to do, you want us to put you under?"

I found myself wincing as I waited for his answer, hoping he'd surprise me by being smarter than I thought he was. Instead, his reply came in the form of a forced grumble enunciating the order to, "Just get it out."

The Doctor interpreted that as "do what you must", and soon Forrest was out like a light after I administered a good, hearty dose of anesthesia into his arm. I was tasked with the responsibility of recording the blood pressure every few minutes, as well as handing over the tools the Doctor required. He worked quickly, steadily, and said not a word except to ask for an instrument, or an update on the record I was keeping. Blood pressure was low, there was no blood left to circulate, but it hadn't yet reached any critical mark. I found this strange, but said nothing to disrupt the doctor. The man should be dead. Dead and gone. But there he was, still bleeding out, but still alive somehow.

Too easily, the hard part was over, and I was drawn to the sound of metal on metal as the Doctor dropped the bullet onto the tray beside him, muttering something to himself along the lines of "not even a scratch on the spleen." How? _How? _It just didn't seem possible. I voiced as much, and all I got was a laugh. "Nothing seems possible with Forrest Bondurant, but it always is," he said lightly, as though it were a phenomenon he'd accepted a long time go, while pulling thread tight through skin. "Always coming in here, balancing on the line with his weight favoring death. Always walks out of here alive. Ain't no logic to it. That's just how it is."

My head spun with the realization that this man would survive his sure death. Apparently it wasn't the first, either. Nothing short of God's walking miracle, is what he was. Just one lucky bastard. No wonder he was so crazy, I'd be too without the fear of death.

In the wake of his apparent survival, I justified taking a peek at his face. Handsome man. _Cynical_ man. Even in an induced sleep, his eyes seemed to squint, tight muscles high on the cheek giving the impression that nobody was fooling him. Biggest lips I'd ever seen on a man, plump and puckered, turned down in a permanent frown. Maybe even a grimace, from the right angle. I wondered what color his eyes were, so I opened one, pulling the lids apart with my thumb and forefinger. Shockingly gray, with just a hint of blue. Put him all together and set him standing, and I bet he was rightly popular among the gals of this area.

The Doctor asked what I was doing, and I pulled back from my inspection, letting the eyelids relax to a close. "Just making sure he was still alive," I said.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he snipped off the excess end of the sutures. "Oh, he's alive, all right. Make a full recovery, too. Ain't no couple of gunshots gon' put Forrest in the ground."

* * *

_Thought I'd go ahead and pioneer this category. Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think. :)_


	2. The Request

**Dance With Me**

_-If the Caged Bird Wanted to Fly, Shouldn't Have Got Himself Shot-_

Never in my life have I had to endure a man such as Forrest Bondurant. And by endure, I mean my tolerance for this man hung on by a thinning thread. Stubborn as a mule, and dumb as a rooster, he was. Kept me working long hours, leaving only after he was asleep, and arriving again before he could wake. In those first few days, I discovered real quickly what would happen if I left him unattended for too long. The madman overestimated his strength, thinking he could go on right ahead and climb out of bed at his convenience. On more than one occasion, I'd found him standing at the window, bleeding right through his pajamas from stretched stitches, or collapsed in a heap on the floor in a failed mission, too weak to get himself back into bed.

Forrest was a man of many noises, but he hardly ever said a word. I spoke to him freely and openly, mostly to tell him how stupid I thought he was, and how exhausted he was making me. He listened, I know he did, always watching me with those gray eyes that gave nothing away about what he was feeling. He acknowledged what I said with the occasional grunt or heavy sigh, and I took pleasure in the fact that I had to at least been irritating him a little.

Sometimes I cursed the Doctor for assigning me this man, but I suppose it was just the luck of the draw. None of the other nurses seemed surprised to find Forrest there, many even relieved that he was not their responsibility for this particular visit. They told me of his reputation; how he was supposed to be invincible, immortal even. It seemed to only encourage tries on his life, the world and its people interpreting his legend as a challenge. Apparently only just last winter, it was said that he walked twelve miles to this hospital in the snow, with his throat slit clean open. They said it was true, said they found him on the doorstep, but I just couldn't believe it. There's nobody breathing, let alone standing and walking with a cut throat.

But the man had the scar, thin white line horizontal across the thick of his neck. I was beginning to think that Forrest Bondurant was something of the devil, instead of God's miracle.

So were his friends.

They flooded in and out of his room as steady as an ocean's tide, making my job all the harder, as they incessantly resisted when I told them they had to leave. It was frequent chore, too, as Forrest was one high-maintenance man, as much as he'd like to think otherwise. Had to feed him like a damn baby, since he couldn't lift his arm proper due to the high wound, and was so uncoordinated with his other it was almost sad to watch him try. He required naps in short intervals throughout the day, and an uncomfortable amount liquid kept in his system, which meant I had to request the privacy to replace the bedpan every so often. He needed his wounds redressed every few hours, and his bedding changed every other day. And since he couldn't keep lying down, he needed sitting like a child.

The men visitors didn't put up too much of a fuss. They questioned why they had to leave, and upon my reasoning, most would tip their hats and be on their way. I'd have to shoo the same two men out of the room at multiple times daily. The same men that had carried Forrest. Brothers, as I understood it now, whose names were Jack and Howard. After so many times meeting, I figured it was good to know the pains in my side by their proper names. Without fail, every day I would walk in mid-morning, early afternoon, or just before bedtime, and at least one of them would be there, sitting or standing at Forrest's side, muttering to him as he stared in their direction. I would roll my eyes and tell them to "get", and like clockwork they would ask why.

Howard by far was the most intimidating. Little Jack, all I had to really do was yell at him to get on back to bed before I shot him again, and he would scramble out of the room. Howard stood his ground, towering over me and silently daring me to force him to do something he didn't want to. I knew he knew how to respect a lady. I'd seen how he opened doors and took his hat off when addressing the other nurses. And I suppose it was partially my fault for not being received so kindly. I like things done the first time I ask, and I don't like my authority being questioned. Forrest would make himself useful by stepping in and agreeing that it was high time he took his leave, and like a good brother, Howard would obey. But he made sure I knew he was leaving because Forrest told him to, not because I did. Damn outlaws had to make a conflict out of everything.

Now, the men were all right. Sure, they scared me some. They were criminals who could commit murder without remorse. I'd be insane not to have some trepidation, but I could hide it pretty well and stand my ground against their tenacity. But the lady, skinny little redhead with a bony face and big eyes, she was downright vicious. She wasn't from anywhere around here. That was immediately apparent in the way she dressed, and the way she talked. All soft-spoken and sophisticated, but with the bite of a viper. Always dolled up nicely in the latest fashions. She might've been one of those New York gals. Chicago even, I couldn't be all that sure. What I did know, is that she was Forrest's sweetheart, and she did not like anyone else taking care of him.

At first, I didn't like her all the much. When she was around, I was made useless. Wouldn't let me feed him. Wouldn't let me change anything other than his bandages. Requested privacy as soon as I was done, and sent me from the room. Then I began to appreciate her presence. She tended to him just as well as I could've. Kept him in bed under close watch, and acted as babysitter so I didn't have to. It was a nice break when Red was around, and I could enjoy my day, making my rounds and checking up on the other patients just to say hello. She didn't like me in the slightest, but I ended up quite liking her.

Forrest had been there about a week when I walked in on Sunday morning to find him awake unusually early, and standing at the window yet again, just a bulking shadow in the dim light of the room. The sun was just about to rise, the dark cerulean of night clouds fading into an orange glow on the horizon. I stopped at the doorway, unspeaking and unmoving for a moment. I knew he must've heard me; the heel of my shoe tapping against the floorboards was no subtle sound. But his back remained turned, large hands bracing the wood of the windowsill. The back of his head was tilted downward slightly, and I knew he was looking at the sky. What he was thinking about though, I couldn't even begin to imagine. He reminded me of some kind of caged bird, longing for freedom so close, yet just out of reach.

I shook my head then, not feeling bad for him in the slightest. It was the price he had to pay if he was going to go and get himself shot.

"What do you think you're doing?" I asked, the sound of my voice echoing in the room's silence. I crossed over to the window, and grabbed his arm. "Forrest Bondurant, how many times do I have to tell you? You are not to get out of that bed for at least three more days." With both of my hands flanking the crook of his left elbow, I gave a tug in attempt to pull him away from the window. He swayed in place as he absorbed the force and easily resisted it, letting me know that I had no power over him. When he turned his head to look down at me, his eyes were narrowed in what I could have mistaken for amusement. Couldn't have been though, absolutely nothing funny about this. "Come on now, don't make this difficult," I told him as I lifted the loose button-down pajama shirt to make sure his stitches still held tight, and with a satisfied nod, dropped the fabric and motioned toward the bed.

After a long pause, he exhaled deeply, and removed his eyes from me in a slow blink, turning his head toward the bed, and his body soon followed the direction. Forrest's steps were slow and laborious, as he exhausted his energy resources every time he moved another leg forward. His body just wasn't quite ready to be up and walking yet, but I was almost positive nothing could get that through his head. I matched him step for step, a hand placed at the middle of his back.

We were just about there when his right knee buckled, and he couldn't seem to find it in him the strength to bring that leg standing again. I ducked under his arm before he could lose his balance and fall to the ground, and the weight of him leaned against my side had even me struggling to stand. "See what happens when you don't listen to me?" I mumbled, just about throwing him off of me the rest of the way onto the mattress. "You ain't never gonna heal proper if you don't give your body the time to do what it needs to." Forrest rolled onto his back with a groan, and one by one I picked his legs up from off the side of the bed, sliding them over the sheets. He attempted to sit up against the pillows, and with an annoyed tut of my tongue, I put a hand to the center of his chest, forcing him back down.

"Pain in my rear end, Forrest, you know that?" I told him as I folded the sheets back over him, and took extra care in tucking him in, snug as a bug in a rug. My fingers stuffed the sheet under his body with a little more force than necessary, and I didn't feel an inkling of guilt at his grunt when I brushed a tender spot. The end result was a cocoon all the way up to the armpits for this man-child. "Now you're gonna stay in that bed, and you aren't moving until I tell you otherwise." He opened his mouth and I could hear a breath hitch in his throat. "Close your eyes," I ordered with a stern stare. His brow furrowed only slightly at the request, but as he released the breath he was holding in a low grumble, his eyes fluttered to the close. "Now I don't want to see them open again for at least another two hours."

Forrest said nothing, only kept his eyes squinted closed, eyebrows turned up in apparent lack of amusement for the sleeping game I used frequently on him. After a moment more, I rose from my spot on the mattress, prepared to indulge myself in a fresh cup of strong coffee, but was stopped by the feeling of fingers wrapping easily around the circumference of my wrist, a remarkable gently grip from such a large and calloused hand.

I was quick to look him in the face, masking my alarm with professional curiosity. My patient clearly needed something, and it was my job to retrieve it for him. But he never touched me before. Such a simple caress, yet I could already feel my face flushing hot under his touch. If it would've been a rough hold, I would've yanked my arm away and proceeded to slap him upside the head with a warning to never do that again. But it was gentle, _so _gentle, as though he was holding onto fine porcelain, and it had me frozen in my position.

Forrest's eyes shined in the quickly fading darkness, and narrowed as he regarded me. I couldn't detect any particular emotion. He simply stared. "What is your name?" he finally asked, his voice a waking volcano in the silence.

The question caught me off guard. He didn't know my name? Of course he didn't. I never told him. Too busy seeing to it that he was healing and behaving. "Edna Ellsworth," I told him, and his lips moved as he repeated the name to himself silently.

"Miss Ellsworth," he said. "I won't be taking any visitors today. It'd be kind of you to pass that message along to those who come."

"And what should I tell them when they refuse to listen to me?" I asked.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he said with a small nod. He released his hold on me, dropped his hand to his side, and closed his eyes. I could feel my annoyance rising, my gut clenching at the very thought of Red, and what she'd do if I told her she couldn't see her sweetheart today. No way, not in a million years was I having that conversation. The Doctor could take full charge in being the one to deflect the visitors.

"Hey," I said, and he grunted to acknowledge he heard me. "What's your lady's name?" I asked, and the question prompted him to open his eyes once again. "The redhead," I specified, as he seemed confused.

"Maggie," he said after a long pause.

"Ah," I nodded. What a sweet name for such a fierce personality. Maybe she was sweet, just not to me. _Maggie_. A name fit for someone who embroidered, and rode side-saddle. Not someone seeking the affections of a Franklin County moonshiner. Such a strange pairing. "She your wife?" My curiosity was getting the best of me, and I knew it wasn't my place to make such an inquiry, but I couldn't help myself. Wouldn't think it possible to love someone who had such a close relationship with death. Someone so stubborn, so dangerous, so reserved. Can't even hold a proper conversation with him, when he's all grunts and grumbles like some damned caveman.

His answer came back negative, but that 'no' could've appropriately translated into 'not yet'. With a small sigh, I patted the fabric of the sheet beside him. "You go on back to sleep now," I said. "I'll be back later with breakfast."

As I walked out of the room and down the hall, a little piece of me wondered why Forrest desired a break from the company of family and friends. Whatever it was, it put me in a pickle having to fare against Howard and Maggie. Just one more thing to add to the growing list of reasons to hate the Doctor for assigning me to the Bondurant brother. Acting as security was not in my job description. Hell, I could run my mouth, but I'm sure even little Miss Maggie could put me flat on my back if it came down to it. Certainly beat me in the height category.

In the kitchen, the cook was already mixing batter for biscuits, and I gave him a hearty good morning, despite what kind of morning I was sure it'd really turn out to be. He smiled, and waved, then gestured toward the aluminum coffee maker already resting on the stove. I put a hand to my heart to let him know of my appreciation and crossed over, grabbing a mug off the counter and grasping the smooth wooden handle, a wave of relief washing over me already as I tilted the pot and steaming black liquid began to pour out.

If the Cook could talk, I knew he'd be laughing at my face after that first sip of pure, remedial Heaven. I wouldn't have minded in the slightest. A fresh cup of Joe could cure almost any crisis, I was sure of it. Howard and Maggie be damned. They couldn't intimidate me. If his privacy was what Forrest wanted today, then that is exactly what he'd get. And it was my duty, my responsibility as his caretaker to see to it.

Although, it was impossible to ignore the shining wish that since it was the Sabbath, they were just going to go ahead and stay home anyway. Here's hoping.

* * *

_It's so good to see Lawless interpretations popping up like wildfire already! If you've noticed, I changed the name of my story. A fellow author within the same category decided to borrow my title and use it as their own, and it was driving me nuts. But I think Dance With Me will suit my particular theme better, as its metaphorical significance will provide the foundations for the motifs throughout future chapters, and the story as a whole. I apologize for a short chapter, I promise they'll get longer, but I had to get it out there to solidify my commitment to this story. Thank you so, so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows! If you're enjoying the story thus far, I highly encourage you to keep them coming, as even the fewest of words about my work mean the world to me. Thank you again. :)_


	3. The Warning

**Dance With Me**

_-Ain't Scared of a Bondurant? They'll Find a Way to Fix That-_

It was midday by the time the first visitors for Forrest walked through the door. Sun was high in the sky, and the hospital was in a lull of lazy, slow-paced activity. The muffled sound of voices echoed out into the halls, and somewhere the static transition of a dialing radio added to the quiet noise. I'd been on my way to Forrest's room, carrying his lunch tray when I spotted them standing in the doorway, waiting to be greeted. Damn near scared me half to death, catching them out of the corner of my eye. Tall and dark figures looming silently in the doorway, didn't even speak up when they saw me.

They looked real official, I noticed as I turned to regard them. They were dressed to the nines in fancy fitted suits of gray and black, black ties tucked behind their buttoned vests. Their hands rested inside the pockets of their suit jackets, and nearly identical fedoras lay low over their eyes. When they'd seen I stopped for them though, they removed their hats real quickly. "Can I help you?" I asked.

The man in the gray suit, the older of the two, stepped forward. He had the darkest eyes and strong, sharp features, and I bet he could be quite terrifying, but he hid it well behind a warm smile. "Perhaps you can, Miss. We're looking for Forrest Bondurant. We were told we could find him here."

I hesitated, my gaze shifting to the side momentarily. I'd bet every penny in my pocket that these men were feds. Wouldn't be the first of them to visit Forrest's bedside, but the others were locals, and if I was hearing correctly, they were repenting to Forrest for whatever wrong done happen down at the bridge that day. These men didn't look like they were apologizing for nothing, to no one. They was townies too, you could tell, taking special care to enunciate their words like they thought I was slow, or something. "Forrest ain't taking visitors today," I told them.

The man took a few more steps forward, and I found myself stepping back, clutching the tray tighter as I desired to keep my distance between him. "Miss…?"

"Ellsworth," I told him.

"Miss Ellsworth," he said, his smile deceivingly kind. "Maybe I should introduce myself. I'm Agent Roy Thomas. My partner," he turned to gesture toward the man still standing in the door, "is Agent Donald Nelson. We're currently investigating into the disappearance of one of our officers, Special Agent Charlie Rakes. He was a member of our Bureau of Prohibition, assigned to clean up this area. There was a big bust supposed to be scheduled a few days ago, but by the time our officers arrived, neither local law enforcement or Agent Rakes could be found, but there was a lot of blood and empty shell casings on the scene. We understand now that there was some kind of encounter between the bootleggers and the law, but no one can tell us if and how our Agent Rakes was involved. Perhaps you've heard others talk of similar subject matter in these last few days? Any information you have at this time would be greatly appreciated and useful to our investigation, Miss Ellsworth."

I didn't say anything for a long while, and I bet I looked suspicious because of it. For good reason, too. I bet I knew a lot more than I was supposed to, and I bet it wasn't a good thing that outlaws and officers came out of that massacre on the same side. I didn't know anything about a Charlie Rakes, but if he was at that bridge and he was a _Prohi_, chances are he was dead as a doornail and wasn't ever going to be found. "I don't know anything about that."

Agent Thomas took a step back, straightened up, and turned to glance back at his silent partner. He didn't bother masking the disappointment and skepticism from his voice as he said, "Yes, nobody seems to around here. However, it's still important that we speak to Mr. Bondurant, to interview him about his acquaintance with Agent Rakes."

"That's all very well," I said, speaking lowly to hide the quiver in my voice, surprised that the handles of the tray weren't bending in my grip by now. "But if you want to see Forrest, you'll have to come back tomorrow. Like I said, he don't want any visitors today."

"I understand that, but time is crucial in this investigation, and we don't have a lot of it," Agent Thomas argued. "I'm sure Mr. Bondurant would understand the brief intrusion."

"The man is healing, sir. He ain't in any right state for an interrogation."

"We have no intention to interrogate him, Miss Ellsworth," he said lightly, as though he thought he could coax me into believing him. "Simply a few conventional questions regarding his whereabouts around the time of Agent Rakes' disappearance."

I opened my mouth to repeat my initial argument, but a shout from outside stopped me, and past Agent Nelson I could see Howard Bondurant propelling from a truck that hadn't yet rolled to a stop. The two feds turned around as he stormed up the steps of the front porch, red-faced with anger. "I told y'all not to come here, I told you!" he yelled, grabbing Agent Nelson by the collar of his jacket and throwing him into the wall.

Agent Thomas fumbled for his gun, but Howard had advanced on him too quickly, taking him by the shoulders and heaving him down to the ground in a heap beside his partner. "Mr. Bondurant, this violence is unnecessary!" Agent Thomas covered his head defensively as Howard took a threatening step toward him.

"I told you Forrest don't know nothin'. What happened at the bridge was a misunderstanding between locals. We ain't seen your Mr. Rakes. And don't you tell me anyone's said otherwise, 'cause I know that ain't true. We don't know nothin'."

"You understand we're just trying to sort out what happened, and find an explanation for his disappearance," Agent Thomas said quickly as he scrambled to a standing position. "It's nothing personal, it's just protocol. We have to ask everyone."

"And I told you, if Forrest had somethin' to add, we know how to contact you."

I don't know what might've happened in the feds' first encounter with Howard, but it must've been bad, because these grown men looked scared out of their wits. Could've arrested him for laying a hand on them like that. Should've arrested him. Instead, as an audience of nurses and the Doctor began arriving at the sound of the scuffle, they tipped their hats and scurried out the door after apologizing for taking up my time. I was still in the process of registering that they were gone, just like that, when Howard rounded on me.

"You ain't said nothin' to them, did ya?" he asked, tipping his head to send a burning glare straight to my eyes.

"Nothing," I said, and my gaze didn't falter under the God-honest truth.

He believed me, straightening up with a nod. Howard surveyed the skittish nurses, most of whom hurried away after being caught watching him. "If they come round here again, you let me know," he told the Doctor, and the elderly man promised to oblige the request. "My brother in his room?" he asked, directing the question at me as he plucked a biscuit off the tray still clutched tightly in my hands.

"He don't want visitors today," I said, wondering how many more times I'd have to repeat that. Starting to annoy even myself.

Howard surprised me by giving an amused huff, mouth full of biscuit. "Course he don't," he said, and dipped down close to my face again. I don't know what he was doing, but I stared back as he searched my face, maneuvering his tongue around inside his cheeks to remove small pieces of the dry bread from the corners and crevices of his mouth. With a "hm", he straightened to his full height yet again, and turned to take his leave. "Have a good day now," he said to, I assume, anyone who was listening as he walked on out the door. A moment later, I could hear the slam of the truck door, and the roll of tires on gravel. As the truck turned around to head back down the road, Jack, who'd only been released yesterday, sent a wave up to us before stepping hard on the gas.

I think there was a lot to learn about living in Franklin County. But I think the more I learned, the more I'd want to leave. That wasn't such an easy option these days. You go where the jobs are, and you stay if you're lucky enough to snag one. I got real lucky, happening upon this area on my way to New England. I'd figured in the big cities like Boston, there was bound to be something for me. But I'd never lived in a city before. Never wanted to. Too many people moving too fast, and getting their morals and priorities all askew. Franklin County, it was kind of like home, only the people were meaner, and more violent. I hadn't expected it to be a county of moonshiners, and it was just my luck that it was one of the wettest counties in the country, and a big target for the war on alcohol.

But like with anything, you got to take the good with the bad, even if the bad outweighs the good. Feds fighting bootleggers, bootleggers fighting each other – that meant the hospital was in need of help. And while the hospital needed help, I had myself a job. That was more important than anything. Even if that meant I had to live in a place run by corrupt law enforcement, shady criminals, and a crazy family with a gaudy reputation.

Forrest was awake and sitting up in bed when I entered his room, relieving myself of the weight of the tray onto his lap with a heavy sigh. "A couple federal agents stopped by wanting to talk to you," I informed him as I dragged a chair to his bedside. Man must've been hungry, because he dove right into that baked potato. "They're investigating the disappearance of Agent Charlie Rakes. They was pushing real hard to get me to let them talk to you, but your brother – Forrest Bondurant you are not an animal!" With a scowl, I ripped the thick slice of ham out of his mouth and from his hand, throwing it back down onto the plate. I offered him the knife resting beside the plate instead, and he took it with a begrudging frown as he chewed the piece of meat in his mouth. "As I was saying, your brother scared them off." I watched him for a pause, and then asked, "What do you think'll happen if they find out you all killed him?"

The quickness at which Forrest's eyes snapped to attention, widening very briefly before relaxing to their natural span, gave away the truth that my inference on the fate of the deputy was correct. "Whatever happened to Mr. Rakes, he brought it upon himself," Forrest said carefully, softly, like a father to a child. "But if we ain't seen him, then he ain't been here, and that's the simple truth." It took me a second to realize that he was teaching me a lesson. A lesson in Franklin County living. The good people of this area had their many differences, but when they came together on something, they were _really _together. As far as they were concerned, there may have been a Charlie Rakes in the area, but no one has seen or heard from him, or had any idea what might've happened to him. But the dark truth came in the fact that many could probably relay, in gruesome detail too, exactly what happened to the federal agent.

Franklin County was a home of chirping cardinals, bold and aggressive, but smart enough to silence their song at the presence of a circling hawk, and brave enough to attack should the enemy come too close for comfort to threaten what is theirs.

I nodded to let him know I understood what he meant as I took the fork from his hand, and replaced it with the glass of milk. He didn't like me dictating how he ate, but he obeyed nonetheless, bringing the glass to his lips for a long sip. "So if they do find out he's dead, what'll happen?" I asked.

He gave a strained huff of annoyance that I was pursuing the subject as he returned to his potato, but answered, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" I was shocked, and I let it show. "No further investigation on who killed their man. They ain't gonna try to find the murderer and bring him to justice?"

Forrest gave a small shrug. "Might. They'll die tryin'."

A human life held no value to these men, unless it was their own. They'd kill, and kill, and kill again if it best served their interests. There was no fear of law and legal justice; they were above it. No responsibility to their community other than keeping it and themselves inebriated off the hooch. These were mad dogs running wild. It was a scary thought, that all this was normal, everyday living for these people. I guess I just didn't understand the appeal. Maybe I didn't understand it at all.

Forrest was watching me, features contorted in a slight grimace as I collapsed against the back of the chair, resting myself in a most unladylike position. "You ain't from around here, are you?"

I glanced up at him, and crooked my eyebrow. "No. Where I come from, people are punished for their crimes."

"And where would that be?"

I wasn't sure if he was genuinely interested in my origins, or if he was questioning where in the country law enforcement was still considered a useful part of civilized society. "Union Parish," I said hesitantly, raising my chin and daring him with a glare to insult my home. "Louisiana."

He gave a low hum as he took another drink of his milk, keeping his eyes on me over the rim of the glass. "Miss Ellsworth," he grunted, returning the glass to the tray, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and locked his gaze with mine in a slow blink. "I know you think we's just a bunch of criminals. I know you don't like us. But keep running your mouth like you been doing, one of these you're gon' say somethin' to someone who ain't gon' take it as kindly as me. You've been warned."

Not ten minutes ago I'd seen federal agents scared away by Howard Bondurant, who obeyed my request to leave his brother be the first time around. I'd solved the not-so-secret case of the missing Charlie Rakes, and I'd discovered that Forrest almost knew how to hold a conversation. Ain't even seen Red yet today. But of all the unexpected occurrences to have happened so far on this glorious Sunday, Forrest Bondurant's warning to keep my opinions and my judgments to myself or suffer the consequences, was by far the least expected of all.

And what worried me the most was my unnerving confidence that every word he said was truer than time. Damn him to hell.

* * *

_I adore you and your support of this story! Thank you so, so much. Let me know what you think of the newest installment, and what you're looking forward to!_


	4. Dangerous Insinuations

**Dance With Me**

_-Dangerous Insinuations-_

Forrest Bondurant left the hospital two weeks after he was admitted, and I hoped the door hit him in the ass on his way out.

With Forrest gone, my days opened wide up. I could actually enjoy my job again, instead of spending all my time babysitting the criminal. I could shadow the doctor, though I didn't rightly understand anything he was trying to explain to me. But I liked when he talked, and I liked watching him work. He was a smart man, that doctor, with a voice like smooth molasses and the steadiest hands I'd ever seen. And I followed instructions well, so he didn't mind me tagging along when he made his rounds, or conducted a procedure.

He told me once that I wasn't meant to be a nurse and that when we got out of this nasty depression, I should think about saving my wages and going to university. He said he thought I'd do well there, that I'd probably find what I was meant to do in this life. But it wasn't nursing, and it wasn't being nobody's wife, and I wasn't going to find it in this county. It sounded like something my daddy would say if I'd had one of those, so I took it to heart. If anyone knew what he was talking about, it would be the doctor.

Anyway, regarding my blissful departure from the Bondurant acquaintance, the relief was short-lived. Maybe three, four months after Forrest was released, he came right back to us again.

Now, word gets around Franklin County pretty quickly. Never know how reliable that word is or not, depending on whose mouth it comes from, but all in all it does the job fairly well. Everyone knew Maggie Beauford, either as Forrest Bondurant's sweetheart, or the pretty city lady who worked the grill at Blackwater Station. One day, it was the thick of summer so I'd say about a month ago, word got around that the redhead up and left the county. Gone, disappeared into the night and hadn't been seen since.

Some folks say Forrest killed her. Drank a little too much of that rotgut, lost his grip on reality and mistook her for an enemy. But the general word was that she left him. And he must've done something awful too, because I'd seen firsthand the kind of stronghold she'd had on him. She didn't look like she was going nowhere any time soon. One of the more popular theories was that she'd asked him when he was going to marry her, and he choked up. That sounded like something Forrest would do, so that's the idea I held onto. A blatant hesitation to a suggestion like that, and ain't no respectable woman going to stick around much longer. Good on her for getting out while she still could. Franklin County wasn't any place for a city girl anyway.

When a group of men came carrying Forrest up the steps and into the hospital one late afternoon in the middle of the week, they said he done fell off a ladder onto his head while fixing a leak in the roof at the station. Said they was watching, and he got his footing wrong, lost his grip, and fell back in an arch. But us nurses, we was sure he was trying to commit suicide. It made sense. Any man would at least think about it, after losing a woman like Maggie Beauford. Right fool he was, for letting that happen. But they insisted it was an accident, so we went ahead and let them believe that.

I'd been making my rounds with the Doctor when they brought him in, four men I faintly recognized, but couldn't say from where. They held Forrest by the arms and legs, struggling to keep the weight of bone and thick muscle as straight and steady as possible. Doctor immediately rushed him into the nearest empty room, asking what happened.

"How long he been like this?" he asked, flipping the body onto his side to inspect for bruising or fracture.

"Don' really know," one of the men said nervously, fidgeting with the brim of his hat as he looked down at the unconscious Bondurant. "Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes."

"Was he awake after he fell at all?" the Doctor gingerly touched his fingers along the length of the neck. "Or was he immediately knocked asleep?"

"Knocked asleep, I'd say," the same man said. "Wasn't responding to nothing we did to him."

The Doctor shot a glare to the men that said they shouldn't have been doing anything to him anyway, and said, "Thank you for bringing him in, gentlemen. Go on and tell his brothers what happened. We've got it from here." He made sure to see every last one of the men gone, before he returned his attention to Forrest.

"Doctor-?" I began, but he cut my question short with, "Edie, how many times I have to tell you, I have a name," as he felt along Forrest's spine.

"Uh-uh, no you don't," I corrected him. "Where I come from, if you earn yourself a title, that's what you're called by."

He chuckled quietly, and then said, "Did you have a question, dear?"

"Yes," I said, "I don't have to take care of him again, do I?"

He shot a quizzical look over the top of his spectacles at me as I stood on the other side of the bed, and I knew he could see the distaste in my face as I stared down at Forrest. "Don't much like the Bondurants?" he mused, then shook his head slightly. "Tha's all right, not many do. We'll give him to Doris – I bet the both of them will get along just fine."

He waited until the suggestion registered, and the smile spread across my face, before he dropped his gaze back to his hands as they worked over Forrest's back. Doris was an old witch of a nurse. Tough as nails and meaner than Satan himself. You could be paralyzed from head to toe and bleeding out every cavity in your body, but you'd be a fool to expect any sympathy coming from old Doris.

Forrest went ahead and put himself in a coma, but the doctor determined that there were no fractures along his back, spine, or head. Ugly bruising, but that ain't much to worry about. No telling how bad of a head trauma he received until he woke up. So until then we was in the dark about whether or not he turned himself into a vegetable. Doctor said the trauma to the head was what put him in the coma, and if Forrest hit the back of his head like he was assuming, it was possible that he'd have memory loss.

We kept that to ourselves though, wasn't worth the uproar. Forrest losing his memory would be bad for business, we suspected.

It was maybe two days before the man came to. I found myself coming round Forrest's chambers to check up on him routinely. Couldn't stop myself. I'd taken care of him for two weeks. Nursed the goner back to health mighty quickly, so I expected a certain level of dedication and commitment from my colleagues when it came to the familiar patient.

But there wasn't a scrap of humanity left in that old hag Doris. Didn't rotate positions of the body as he slept so his limbs didn't go numb. Didn't change his rags often enough, leaving him resting in his filth far longer than a human should have to. She thought shoving a tube down his throat to put substance in his stomach was ungodly. She didn't mind sticking the needles in him, though. The needles with tubes that connected to a bag replenishing his fluids – Doctor had a fancy name for those. She did that job just fine.

Doris shouldn't have been taking care of anything more complex than a cactus tree, but I bet she'd neglect even that. I knew she was awful, but I guess I underestimated her habits. She was excellent when it came to the remedial chores. She could stitch a wound or cure a cold in minutes. It was the petty caretaking chores that was hard. No one could blame her for deeming them unpleasant, but they was just one of those things that had to be done. Even a Bondurant deserved proper treatment.

As I was saying, Forrest came round in the early morning as his younger brother sat bedside, cursing him for being so clumsy. I was enjoying my coffee when suddenly little Jack's cracking squawk of a voice was filling the corridors of the hospital and waking all of Rocky Mount with it. I came bounding into the room, angry that my morning ritual was disturbed, and that he was making such a ruckus when he knew the other patients were sleeping. I was damn ready to silence the madman with a slap upside the head.

Instead, Jack silenced as soon as he heard the stomp of shoes against the floor, and I skidded into the room, halting at the sight of open eyes, dark and staring down the length of the bed at me, blinking slowly in the dim glow of the oil lamp resting on the small bedside table. I tore my glare away and refocused it on Jack. "Are you dumb?" I snapped. "You'll wake the whole county yelling like that. Go fetch the doctor. Get!"

Jack ignored my insults, immediately scrambling around me and out the door. I bet he didn't even really hear a word I said, intent on obtaining the professional reassurance that his brother was just fine. Hell, if that's what he wanted, I could've told him that.

"Welcome back!" I told Forrest, stepping over to stand beside the bed. His gaze did not follow my movement. "Hey," I snapped my fingers in front of his face, and I was greeted with a flash of gray. "What's your name?" His brow began to furrow in a small scowl at the question, so I mirrored his face. "Don't look at me like that. Answer the question. What is your name?"

"Forrest," he said.

"Forrest what?"

"Bondurant."

"Good," I nodded, and then tried for a harder question. "Do you know my name?"

He peered up at me, eyes squinting against glow of the lamp. Must've been bright for him, after seeing darkness for two days. "Edna Ellsworth," he said, his voice a low mutter.

"It is," I confirmed. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hell," he grunted¸ and I looked down at the sound of rustling sheets to find him shifting his legs. Wasn't paralyzed. Smartass kept his wits. He was just fine.

I bit back a smile, and asked, "Do you remember what happened to you? You fell off a ladder…was you trying to commit suicide?"

Forrest did a double-take, and his scowl deepened to a glower, and I think I got my answer. Would have to tell the nurses later…definitely not a suicide attempt. He looked like he was trying to form words, when Jack returned with the Doctor in tow.

"I think he's all right, Doctor," I said, stepping out of the way as the elder man hurried to the center of the room, and pulled on a chain descended from the ceiling. Light filled the room with a _click! _and Forrest shut his eyes tight with a breathy groan.

"Forrest, do you remember what happened to you?" the Doctor spoke like he was trying to communicate with someone far away. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, prying Forrest's eyelids apart.

"I fell," Forrest said, attempting to turn away from the Doctor's grasp, eyelids fighting to close against the sharp, bright light.

"You did. You been unconscious for two days. Do you remember what you were doing when you fell?" The Doctor continued to pull Forrest's lids apart until he quit putting up a fight, and blinked until his eyes stopped rolling and fell into focus.

"Fixin' a leak," he finally said.

"Follow my finger, Forrest." The Bondurant's eyes moved side to side, up and down, in and out to mirror the Doctor's motions, and finally he sighed. "I'll be damned. Your brother seems all right, Jack. He's gon' be fine."

"O' course he is," Jack said with strong confidence, and I found myself shaking my head in amusement. Word about the Bondurants being immortal, I bet Jack just ate that right up. Especially now that he was a survivor himself.

"Edie, why don't you fetch Forrest some breakfast, and a pitcher of chilled water," the Doctor suggested as he motioned for Forrest to lift his arms straight up and hold them there. "You are one lucky son of a bitch, you know that?"

I could hear a familiar contemplative grumble as I grabbed Jack by the arm and pulled him out to assist me.

Little Jack had just arrived to pick Forrest up from the hospital at dusk the next day when I was leaving my shift. He came bounding up the steps as I scooted out the door, damn near running into me as he kept his eyes on the ground. I pushed into his chest with a shout to prevent a collision, and he froze, looking up with wide apologetic eyes. "Miss Edie!" he said, taking a few steps back. "Sorry – I didn't see you."

"I suggest watching what's ahead of you, instead of your feet," I said. "You be careful."

"Yes ma'am, sorry," he said, bowing his head, dark eyes peeking up at me as his body shifted restlessly. "My brother ready to go?"

I put my hands on my hips, tilting my head up to regard the baby Bondurant. Such an anxious young man, with so much love and adoration for his older brother. I bet it was a big honor, to be the one who got to pick Forrest up from the hospital and take him home. Certainly didn't want to disappoint, either. Seven o'clock is when we said he could come, and seven o'clock it was. "Just left him sitting in a chair, waitin'," I said.

Jack glanced up over the top of my head, and moved for a quick, polite departure at the word that his brother was waiting for him. He made a couple dips, and lifted his hat a few inches off his head as he scooted around me with a quiet, "Excuse me," and set off down around a corner and out of sight.

I shook my head with a sigh, and parted on my own trek, back home.

It was a straight shot from the hospital into town. Only had to travel the winds and bumps of one road, mostly uphill headed there, the building tucked into a property right off the side of the road, mostly downhill headed home. I was thankful for that. After a long day's work, travelling miles on an upward slant would have me welcoming death nightly. But downhill wasn't so bad. I walked along idly, kicking at the red dirt, dry and compacted to form a path that two automobiles could pass each other on comfortably. I could watch the sun set, see the stars pop up one by one, arriving on the edges of town right about the time a woman of Franklin County should be heading inside anyway. I don't really know why, but that's how it was. I suppose it was too dangerous to be seen at night, or too dangerous because of what you might see. Rocky Mount got real quiet and real loud all at the same time every night. It was a strange experience, to hear absolutely nothing for hours on end. Then, to be waken with a start in the early hours of the morn by the deafening roar of a succession of vehicles as they sped through the center of town, heading for the county lines. Bootleggers.

A couple nights, I'd sat up and waited for them, just out of my own curiosity, to see if I'd maybe recognize Jack, or Howard, or Forrest, or even ole Tom Cundiff, who I'd treated once for split knuckles and a shattered cheek bone. But those cars were moving so fast – I bet some of them were going seventy, easy. They all looked the same, too, and the people inside were nothing but shadows as they flew on by.

My thoughts were interrupted by an old Model TT wheeling past, wooden boards of the flatbed rattling as the wheels rolled against the rough, uneven terrain. I glanced up briefly, then returned to a calming state of introspection as I ducked a low-hanging tree branch, pushing the leaves aside with my hand. The sound of squealing brakes drifted to my ears soon after, and my eyes floated up to the TT now idling a few yards ahead of me.

I wondered if they were stopping for me, so I quickened my pace thank them for the small gesture of kindness. So many wanderers these days, looking to head somewhere different by any means necessary. People tended to pick up lone women on the side of the road more often than not. I remember hitchhiking from county to county without much trouble. Didn't even have to hold my hand out to most of them. They said it was dangerous, hitchhiking, but the folks I'd come across were hospitable enough.

I could see a crooked elbow clad in gray fabric hanging out the window, but the mirrors hanging off the side of the truck were drawn in at such an angle that I couldn't see a person inside. Before I'd even reached the passenger door, I heard a loud shout of "Miss Edie!"

Plastering a smile on my face, I addressed the two Bondurant brothers. "Where you headed?" Jack asked from behind the wheel. A glance at Forrest saw that he was watching me with a cool, impassive stare.

"Just down the road, into town."

"You livin' in them apartments?" At my verification, Jack continued, "Well hop on in back, and we'll give you a ride!"

"Jack…" Forrest kept his eyes on me, but his tone was low and drawn out in a subtle warning. At the sound of his name, the young Bondurant must've realized his mistake for courtesy, or rather lack thereof, and with a quiet _oh!_, shifted gears and hopped out of the cab, running around to the side I stood by as Forrest scooted over to take the place of the driver.

"Sorry, Miss Edie," Jack said as he opened the door for me, apologizing for the second time that night as I realized the decision to be chauffeured home had already been made for me.

"That's all right," I said, taking the hand he offered to me, warm and sweaty in my grip as I used it to help myself step up inside the raised cab. Once Jack saw me situated, he slammed the door closed, and a moment later the vehicle shook with the weight of him climbing in back. At the sound of a palm slapping the hood of the truck, Forrest shifted gears, and stepped on the gas pedal.

I didn't say anything to him, but I figured I should. A thank you, or something, for the ride. Only a few minutes had passed, and we were already halfway there – a walk that normally took me almost an hour. I kept my hands folded over the stiff pleats of my uniform, eyes out the window, wind whipping at my face as I addressed nature as it passed by in a blur. Forrest's gaze focused on the road and did not waver, both hands on the wheel, foot casually maneuveringbetween gas and brake at a smooth pace.

"Thank you," there, I said it. "For the ride."

"Ain't nothin'," he said, taking a sharp corner leisurely. I nodded slowly. Probably wasn't a good thing to be riding with a Bondurant. Two of them, even worse. But I pushed the thought away. It was a nice thing of them to do. In this day and age, those were rare, and one had to take advantage of them when they were presented. Didn't matter what it was. If it helped you in some way or another, you'd be nothing but a damn fool to refuse it. "You take care of me again?" Forrest's question drew me out of my daze, and I realized I'd been staring at the man.

"No," I said, quickly returning my gaze to the window. "You know old Doris was your nurse."

"But you were there."

I wondered what he was referring to. The morning he woke? "Jack was yelling. I was just a first responder," I explained.

"No," he said, capturing my attention yet again. He coasted down the remaining stretch of slope and cranked on the headlights as they entered the outskirts of town. The speed of the vehicle reduced to a crawl. "You were there…before. I swear it."

I don't know why I didn't just admit to assisting with Doris's duties, wasn't any kind problem or embarrassment to help a colleague with a patient. But with Forrest there accusing me of it, suddenly it became a taboo subject I didn't ever want brought up again. Apparently the Doctor was right when he said people in a coma could hear you when you talked to them. I talked to him all right. Done chat his ear off about anything and everything as I changed his rags and fluids. Sleeping Forrest was so much easier to talk to than any other Forrest. Best part was that he wouldn't remember any of it, or so I'd hoped.

I waved his notion away with the snarky remark that he must be as crazy as they say he is. "That, or you was dreaming about me."

Even in the dark, I could see the red fast creeping up his neck and ears, and he cleared his throat. He pulled to the side of the road, in front of a large rectangular building made of red brick, and I didn't realize we'd even stopped until he turned to look at me. "Thanks again," I said slowly, and he nodded sharply, redness blending into his cheeks. I turned to grasp the cool metal of the door handle, the truck rocking as Jack jumped out the back, and I hesitated, turning back to regard him briefly. "I don't want to see you at the hospital again," I told him, willing my heart to stop thumping so loudly in my chest. I was sure he could hear it by now.

Forrest gave a short grunt couple with another nod, and at that I turned, pushing the door open and sliding out. "Goodnight, Miss Edie," Jack tipped his hat as I passed him, but I kept my eyes to the ground.

"Goodnight Jack," I said lightly, fishing for my key in the pocket of my skirt. Behind me, a door slammed, but the motor still chugged a steady rhythm, at rest and waiting until I was safe inside the building.

* * *

_"Forrest takes care of everyone, but who takes care of him? That is the central question of Lawless." -Tom Hardy_

_Sorry it's been a few days since an update - I went ahead and read _The Wettest County In the World. _Damn good. Damn good._

_Wow, thank you all so much for the overwhelming support for this story. I appreciate it so, so much. Keep it up! I want to know how I'm doing, and what you all are looking forward to. I'm probably going to ask you help me analyze the man of the hour and this storyline pretty soon, like I did with my Warrior story. I just love hearing your opinions and your ideas/interpretations. I know you all are an insightful group of motherfuckers - that's why we all adore and take so much from a man that grunts and grumbles his way through the movie. I know you'll have some beautiful things to say._

_Doing away with Maggie was an extremely popular intrigue, I noticed. We're going to go into far better detail with that in later chapters, but this was just the initial scrape while Edie didn't care so much about Bondurant personal business. _

_Thank you so much again for reading. I hope you're enjoying it as much as I am!_


	5. Blackwater Station

**Dance With Me**

_-Too Much Excitement for One Night-_

I bet Franklin County was beautiful in the winter, to those who enjoying that sort of thing. Me, I despised the cold, my burning hate for the weather the only thing keeping me only slightly warmer during the season. It was plain awful. Everything was wet, and slick with ice, the wind unforgiving as it slapped harshly at my skin every time I stepped outside.

And the snow.

I'd seen snow. I knew what it was. Little white frozen flakes falling from the sky. But I never seen it stick to things like it did in Franklin. Covered everything in a sheet of white; sometimes that sheet was thin, sometimes it was thick. And it wouldn't go away.

The snow was cleverly disguised as an agent of the devil. Snuffed the life out of everything. As long as it stuck around, so did an agonizing chill. Made my journey to and from home a tedious and dangerous task, fighting hard against the elements, pacing up and down the winding roads, taking care not to slip on invisible patches of slick ice. I was sure my bum had permanent bruising, and I hadn't been able to keep a pair of socks dry for weeks.

My mood darkened with the weather. If my body was miserable, so was my mind. I reverted back to some sort of primitive form of survival, in which my days passed by in a blur as I focused my energies in working, eating, sleeping, and the pursuit of warmth. Ain't no paying attention to the little joys in life when I couldn't feel my toes. I certainly hoped a harsh winter would mean the onset of an early spring.

Forrest must've listened when I said I didn't want to see him at the hospital again. Four months, and not a single whisper of him. Not any of the Bondurants, actually. Hadn't seen them at the hospital, and if they were wandering around town, I was the lesser aware. The caravans still rolled through town in the middle of the night, never failed to wake me from slumber, and I hated the whole business a little more every time it happened.

Sometimes, I'd wake with a start at the roar of motors, roll over in bed and stare up at the ceiling. It was easier to get back to sleep some nights more than others. But when the pull of noise was stronger than the lull of sleep, and I'd let a conscious thought slide over my muddled brain, that was all it took to wrench me back into the world of the awake.

Usually, that first thought came in the form of an image of a fuzzy-faced ruffian with steel gray eyes. Sometimes it was just his face, mouth turned down and eyes squinted in what seemed to be his natural expression. Sometimes I imagined him behind the wheel of one of the vehicles down on the street, both hands at the wheel, eyes staring at the trunk of the car in front of him, foot pressed hard against the gas pedal. I wondered if he did runs at all, or if he was the manager of another responsibility in the business.

Other times, I'd see him turned towards me, cheeks blazing with color, eyes shifting uncomfortably, and my stomach would churn with a nauseating mixture of emotion.

There wasn't much to Forrest Bondurant. He made his living illegally. He was a criminal, and they said he was as prone to violence as much as he was an introverted personality. His communication skills were lack if not nonexistent. He strung sentences together until he made his point, and that was the end of it. It seemed as though he threw all his initiative into his business, and left none for his personal life. I couldn't imagine Forrest making any passionate gesture of endearment, or show soft compassion towards a woman. Hell, I couldn't even picture what his smile might look like. That makes a hard man to love.

But he was also a man of polite manner. A parent to his brothers, or so it seemed. People looked up to him. They feared him, some hated him, but he was respected. To the people of Franklin County, and maybe even beyond that, he was something of a mythical creature. A fable, an apparition, not ever quite sure if you actually seen him on the streets or it was your imagination getting away from you. It was interesting, his reputation. These people knew the Bondurants a whole lot longer than I have. When they saw Forrest, they saw something unreal. The stuff of legends.

When I saw Forrest, I saw a man lying in bed, scowl permanently set on his face like a grumpy old man, aged far before his time. I saw a man taking bites of grits off the spoon in my grasp. A man who leaned against me in exhaustion, using my strength and support to return him to bed safe and sound after deliberately disobeying me. He may be immortal, like they say. Indestructible. An agent of business and order by means of brutality. But above anything, he was still a man. I knew that first hand. Still needed taking care of. Still shit himself in his two-day sleep, and someone had to clean it up.

I suppose when you reach that level of personal business with someone, it's hard to consider them with a strictly professional attitude. I'd taken care of Forrest. And I kind of liked it.

I was glad Forrest was keeping away from the hospital. But that didn't stop me from hurrying to take a peek at a new admittance each time one came in, or look over my shoulder as a vehicle drove up on the road, take care to search the faces of the people that passed by in downtown Rocky Mount. But they were never him. Part of me conceded that it was probably for the best. No good going to come out of allowing myself to be drawn toward him. It'd either be too troublesome or too tedious working to love that man. I was just fond of him, was all.

However, Franklin County was only so big, and there were three of them running around. I was bound to run into one eventually. I was beginning to think that the Bondurants for me were as unavoidable as death and taxes.

I'd been making my way home from an evening run to the grocer before the shops closed up for the holiday. Christmas was only four days away, and there was an air of joyous impatience sweeping through the streets of Rocky Mount. No one wanted to be out and about. They wanted to be at home with their families, and were counting down the seconds until they were on holiday. Only the drunk and the lonely roamed the evening, and only a couple places in town stayed open to cater their needs.

Walking along the road, I'd seen a form hunched over a parked Ford, forehead to the hood, one arm crooked over his head, the other slack like he'd intended to get in the vehicle, but fell asleep before he could open the door. It was Howard, I could tell just by looking at his size. No man in the county matched his height and girth; it was unique to him and him alone.

Howard was dead drunk, but alert as a soldier on watch, and when I called out to him, he lifted his head just high enough to peek over his arm and send a burning glare in the direction of the sound of his name. "Who is that?" he growled, and I stepped forward under the flickering light of a street lamp.

"Nurse Ellsworth," I said, and he grumbled, straightening up, and swaying dangerously with the sudden motion. I could hear the jingle of keys on the other side of the vehicle. "You aren't thinking about drivin', are you?"

Howard glanced up again, lowered his gaze and seemingly ignored my question. But his eyes snapped back in my direction, narrowing as though he were examining something real close to him, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Edie Ellsworth, damn! Why didn't ya say somethin'? Can't hardly recognize ya without th' uniform."

His speech was loud and slurred, and my eyes shifted to our surroundings, seeing if anybody else was watching this. Cars lined the street, but there wasn't another soul for a couple blocks. "Are you going home, Howard?" I asked, stepping forward and shifting the paper bag in my arms. The closer I walked, the taller he seemed to get, and soon he was looking down his nose at me. I took the car keys from his unsuspecting hands, and turned away again. "Cause it sure looks like you are, and I ain't letting you drive in the state you're in."

"Hey now!" Howard hurried after me, sliding on a slick spot in the road, and stomping to right himself. "Hey, you give me those."

"You're drunk as a lord, Howard Bondurant. If I let you get behind that wheel, you'll kill us all and then yourself."

"Ain't never before. Give 'em!" he grabbed for my hand, but I held it away from him, and he huffed and snorted in frustration, plume of frozen air coming from him like a bull. Nothing was stopping him if he really wanted to take his keys back. I knew that, but the fact that he didn't seem to had me questioning how much liquor that man put away. "Where we going?" he asked after a stretch of silent stumbling.

"See that building just there?" he followed my nod to the brick structure a few yards away.

"Yeah."

"You're going to wait outside that building while I run these groceries up. Then I'm going to take you home, and you're going to tell me where that is."

"You give me those keys," he said suddenly, and it must've been a last-ditch effort because when I said no he shut right up.

I didn't do much more than toss the bag onto empty counter space, didn't even bother to turn on a light, and I was out the door and down the stairs again to get Howard on his way home. He shouldn't have been out so late, and certainly not doing the things he was. I knew he had a wife, and a little baby girl who wasn't doing too well. It was no secret up at the hospital that they weren't able to pay to keep up with the treatment for the little girl, but the Doctor turned his head on the matter and continued to provide routine check-ups and medicine, kept it off the books, though Howard didn't know that. When it came time to pay, the doctor would take the money. But if that money never came, it would make no difference. He was a saint, that doctor.

I think I'd seen her once, Howard's wife. If it was her, sickly little thing cradling a screaming baby to her chest, I felt right sorry for her. I bet she'd been beautiful once, but that child went and sucked the life right out of her. Financial instability probably didn't make things any easier.

We walked back to the car, me and Howard, and at one point the man stopped to wretch, though nothing came out. I rolled my eyes and kept walking, planning what I was going to say to the wife if I saw her tonight. Apologize on her husband's behalf for acting like a fool. Introduce myself. Maybe suggest a good powder for those circles under the eyes. No idea.

When we slid into the car, I held the keys out, searching the levers and mechanisms around me. Howard looked over at me, and a grumble erupted from somewhere deep inside him. It was the pause. It was always the pause that betrayed you. My eyebrows furrowed, and I stuck the key inside a familiar-looking slot as he made the accurate accusation that I didn't know how to drive. "Don't look all that hard," I mumbled, turning the key over in the slot like I'd seen others do before. The engine cranked, a painful scraping noise, then roared to life with such force, I jumped.

"What do I do now? I use this, right?" I touched the lever to my right. Howard's eyes slid over to me briefly, and he released a slow breath. Then, mumbling under his breath, he turned around in his seat, and stretched one long arm back, beginning to feel around the darkness behind our seats. When he turned around again, a canning jar was in his hand, filled to the brim with clear liquid. "Are you kidding me?" I asked, eyes wide, not sure if I was more appalled that as a known maker and distributor, he was bringing liquor out into the open, or that he was planning on drinking it. Put any more away, and he'd be fixing to die.

Howard spun the lid off and threw it behind him, bringing the jar to his lips, and taking one, two, _three_ large gulps of the stuff. He grimaced, and sucked in a breath after the last of it had burned its way down his throat, shaking his head. Then, he reached over and cranked the lever himself. "Put your foot down on the left pedal and hold it," he ordered, and I looked down to make sure my feet were following directions. "Now turn the wheel over to the left-" he turned away to sneeze three times in a short succession. I followed his direction and waited for him to continue. "Now let your foot up off the brake – damnit slowly!" I tried to decipher if that was panic in his voice as I pushed hard on the brake again, white-knuckled grasp on the wheel, my heart pounding in my chest as we lurched forward.

I tried again as Howard chugged on his liquor, and he croaked out the order to straighten the wheel and continue on down the road in the direction we were already headed. After a minute, he reached over and cranked a lever that turned on the headlights, and the road became mighty clearer. I caught a whiff of him in his close proximity, the ripeness of sweat and dirt, the sharp stench of rotten corn and bathtub gin. My nose wrinkled in rejection of the stink, and I took a hand off the wheel to push him away. "Oh – Howard, you reek!"

"S'what a man smells like," he flashed me a smile behind the jar, and I could feel the scowl on my face as I stared out at the road. I could only have been doing twenty miles an hour, but I was scared to go any faster. The wheel lurched and twisted in my grip, fighting to be free and swerve in its own direction as the tires smacked and jumped the uneven terrain. I held on tight, forcing it to keep a straight travel. After awhile, Howard slouched in the seat, succumbing to a new wave of inebriation, holding the jar close to his face like he was smelling it, and I realized that I was driving without direction.

"Howard," I extended my hand, not wanting to take my eyes off the road, and when I felt the rough texture of scruff along smooth skin, I slapped it lightly, over and over until he lifted his head with a deep inhale and shoved my hand away from his face.

"Whatchu want?"

"Where's home?" I asked. "Tell me where to go."

"Just keep on this way," he said. Howard occupied his time finishing off the contents of the jar, and swallowed hard after a final drink to tell me to take a sharp right off the road. I turned the wheel cautiously, a little too slowly, swinging wide and narrowly missing a tree and if Howard noticed, he didn't mention it.

As I rolled into the clearing, I began to infer that home was probably not where Howard directed me. A two-level building came into view, upstairs dark, but downstairs a warm glow shined through the windows out onto the lot. Snow covered the ground, but was thoroughly treaded by feet and tires. Closer toward the front porch, a gas pump stood tall, and off to the side, several vehicles were parked side-by-side in a line, including a familiar-looking Model TT. "Howard, is this Blackwater Station?" I asked.

"Yep."

"I said I was taking you _home_," I said. Last thing he needed was to do some more drinking. He should be home with his family.

I stepped on the brake, and the car came to a stop somewhere close to the other vehicles. Didn't even bother trying to line up all orderly like the others did. "S'where I'm supposed to be," Howard said as he reached over, shifted gears with the lever, and then twisted the keys. The car shuddered and died. "How you plan on gettin' back?"

"Well." Hadn't thought that part all the way through. "I was planning on borrowing your car, and you can pick it up when you're in the right state to drive it."

"The hell you are," he took the keys from their slot like it was a contest to see who'd get them first. "You don' even know how to use it."

"I got here just fine. I bet you'd be in a ditch by now."

"Goddamn you're annoying." Howard tossed the jar in the back, and opened the door. "You ain't taking my car. Go on inside. Someone'll drive you home."

With a glare, I exited the car ahead of him, stomping over the snow, cursing it for being so thick in this lot. My small heel sunk right in, and the snow seeped right through, soaking my stockings. Ungrateful drunk, he was. I'd taken time out of my evening to make sure he got home safely. And if the concern was not of his safety, certainly it was the safety of those who would've had to share the road with him. And what am I? _Annoying. _

I could hear Howard walking behind me, and then suddenly he dropped. A distinct noise, like a sack of potatoes falling in a heap to the ground. I stopped and turned around just in time to see him expelling his last meal into the snow, on his hands and knees, head bowed.

"You deserve that," I reasoned, placing a hand on my hip as I regarded him.

"Shut yer damn mouth," he gasped, spitting at the ground. As a new wave of nausea struck him, I couldn't keep the smirk off my face. _Serves him right_, I thought, crossing over and up the steps of the station.

I don't know what I was expecting when I opened the door and stepped inside. Maybe I was expecting to see a few patrons occupying tables, having a drink or meal, talking amongst each other. Maybe a worker behind the grill, or someone sweeping the boards of the floor, or some other common chore. I figured Forrest might be occupied and out of sight, so I could find Jack or some other kind familiar and ask them to take me home.

But there weren't any customers. Weren't any workers either. The room was warm as an oven, and I could've moved in for the winter right then and there. It was wide-open and empty, the sound of a radio on low filling the air. Jack sat at a lone table in the center of the room, cards spread out along the surface like he'd been playing a game of solitaire. A wool cap was high on his head, and his brow was furrowed as he closely considered the amber liquid in the glass held in his hands. Forrest stood over a grill, moving a pan back and forth across the burner as its contents sizzled. An old, dirty white and green pinstripe apron fell down the front of him, hooked at the neck and tied at the waist. A cigarillo hung loosely from his mouth, and as he turned to see who'd come through the door, he didn't look the least bit surprised to find me.

"Miss Edie!" Jack may have been surprised enough for the both of them. He stood from his chair, removing the cap from his head and smoothed his hair out. "What're you doin' here?"

I addressed the eager young man with a small smile. "Hey there Jack. Ran into your brother in town. He was drunk as all hell, so I drove him home."

"Where is he?"

"Out ralphing in the lot. I was hoping someone here wouldn't mind driving me home now, seeing as I used Howard's car and all."

"Sure, sure, 'course," Jack said with a nod, and sat back down in his chair. "We's just havin' supper first. Have you eaten, Miss Edie? Chicken and greens, real good. Forrest is a damn fine cook."

"Oh, it's all right," I began, but a sound to my left stopped me. Forrest had already withdrawn another plate from the cupboard, and moved to set it as the fourth in a stack resting on the edge of the counter space. He looked up at me as he pulled the stump of rolled tobacco from his teeth, smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils, and then turned back to the grill.

I ignored the strange jump of my heart as I stepped over to draw out a seat beside Jack, shrugging out of my long coat and hanging it on the back. "What're you playing?"

"Nothin'," he said, looking down at the formation of cards before him. "Just seeing if it's a full set. You look different, without your uniform."

"Howard said the same thing," I leaned back and crossed my legs, narrowing my eyes curiously. "What's different?"

"I dunno," Jack shrugged, keeping his gaze down. "You look nicer. Prettier. Figured you might've been one of those ladies who wore them ankle-length frocks and long-sleeved collared blouses. And there ain't nothing wrong with that," he said hastily, like he was afraid of offending me. "My Bertha's like that, and damned if she ain't the prettiest thing this side of the world. But you's real pretty, too Miss Edie."

"Well thank you," I said with a small laugh at his twisted version of a compliment. "So you have a lady, Jack?"

"I do," he said, sitting up a little higher, small smile stretching his lips. "Name's Bertha Minnix."

"You gonna marry her, Jack?" I asked, reaching over to give a light elbow in the arm.

"Sure am," he said confidently. "Someday."

Howard burst through the door, struggling to steady himself as he teetered dangerously every time he shifted his weight. Neither brother greeted him, or even acknowledged that he was there. The color had returned to his face, though I could see sweat shining on his forehead as he took a seat in the chair across mine, shooting a brief glare in my direction.

"Jack, clear your cards," Forrest called over, and my attention was drawn immediately, sure that was the loudest I'd ever heard him.

"You need help, Forrest?" I asked out of habit. Strange for a woman to be sitting, doing nothing while a man did the cooking. He looked at me, but otherwise ignored me, turning the pan over and letting the greens fall into a bowl. I stood with a sigh, and my heels clicked delicately against the floor as I moved beside him. He became intensely focused on salting the chicken, and when I asked where the utensils were, he pointed to a drawer on the other side of him. I stepped around him to gather up a collection of forks and knives as he tossed a napkin onto the plate of chicken, balancing it on his arm to grab another covered plate with one hand and the bowl of greens with the other, and I followed him out to the table.

Nothing was said for a long time. Only the sound of a crackling fire, hushed melody on the radio turned down so low you couldn't make out words, and utensils scraping against the plates could be heard. I glanced up every once in a while to see the brothers exchanging looks with each other, or staring at nothing in particular, but otherwise remained focused on my food. Jack was right when he said Forrest was an excellent cook. The chicken was cooked to perfection with the right amount of flavor, the biscuits were warm and buttery, and the texture of the greens was still firm, with just a bit of crisp still to them. Never would've imagined that.

"What's that?" I asked, referring to the glass of amber liquid Jack had been. He pointed to it in silent question, and I nodded.

Jack searched his brother's faces, but they said nothing, returning their attention to their plates. "It's apple brandy," he said, picking the glass up. "Sweeter than candy, real smooth. Wanna try it?" He offered it, but I eyed it hesitantly. Never had anything harder than wine before. But he said it was sweet and smooth, and I sure was curious about the hard sell over the Bondurant booze. So I took the glass, brought the edge to my lips, and tilted in preparation for a dainty sip.

It burned. Oh god, it burned. Numbed my lips the second the liquid touched them, scorched all the way down my throat, and I could feel it reach my stomach, setting it ablaze. I gasped at the strange feeling, then sputtered and coughed as I drew the glass away from me, Howard and Jack laughing at my reaction. But then the sweet taste of apples reached my palate, maybe even pears, and the scent of butterscotch and caramel filled the air, and suddenly it wasn't all that bad at all. Pleasant, even. My insides were warm. I'd been searching for this kind of warmth all winter. It was like magic.

"You like that?" Jack asked, and I nodded, giving it another go. I tried not to cough as the brandy burned its way down, instead clearing my throat to rid the tickle as I handed the glass back to Jack. "It's good, huh? Forrest makes it. Won't give the recipe to no one."

"If everyone knew how to make it, wouldn't be so special now, would it?"

"Suppose not," Jack said, and his face lit up like he suddenly remembered something. "Hey, Miss Edie. Forrest says you're from Louisiana. What's it like there?"

My heart gave a leap at the mention of home, then gave another at the mention that Forrest had spoke of me. I buried the latter thought and focused on the first, a smile on my face as I leaned back in my chair and thought of home. "It's kind of like here, except a lot warmer all year round. The people are kind. In New Orleans, there's always a party, always music in the streets. Everyone looking to have a good time. Most liquor is in the south. Up north, people are a lot quieter. We live our lives nice and slow."

"You ever seen the ocean?" he asked.

"Course I have," I said. "Water's blue as far as the eye can see. Sometimes it's warm even, depending how hot the day is. Sand is white, and soft in your toes. Ain't nothing else like it."

Jack sighed and sat back in his own chair, slouching as he imagined it. "I wanna see the ocean."

"You've got yourself a car," I said. "Virginia coast can only be a few hours away. Take your lady and drive east until you hit water. I bet she'd like that."

This drew the attention of all three brothers, though I didn't rightly know why. Couldn't even make a guess as they peered at me, a set of narrow eyes, like they were thinking hard about what I'd just said.

Howard had fallen asleep in his chair, and Forrest left Jack to clean up. We set off down the road in old Business Coupe, the only sound between us the hum of the motor and whistle of Forrest's long breaths through his nose. Not a single word was said until he'd navigated back into town and rolled to a stop in front of my building.

I turned to him. "Well, thanks for driving me home, again," I said. "And thanks for the meal. I appreciate it."

"Appreciate you lookin' after Howard," he said, turning his head toward me slightly. "Won't happen again."

"You and I both know that ain't true," I said, with a small smile and a breath of laughter, and he bowed his head like he was conceding my statement, though he wouldn't say it.

I was fighting to string together some parting words, more clever or lasting than goodnight. But it was a struggle, as all my words muddled together as I searched the shadowed face of the Bondurant. I was about to give up, ready to recite a simple, unsatisfying departure when a sound in the distance caught my attention. Caught his, too, as his eyes shifted to meet mine in the darkness and he froze, his head a little tilted as he listened.

A roar. It seemed to be coming from every direction. I peered out the window and Forrest followed my gaze. Headlights. A lot of them. Couldn't be the caravans, though, it was too early in the evening. Forrest's head shot up, and he stuck his head out the window of his door to look behind him, and I turned in my seat to peek out the small window in the back. Cars were coming from the other direction as well. The cars were drawing closer and closer to each other, the ones from behind flying past the Coupe, and then a gunshot sounded with a deafening bang in the air.

I ducked, my heart pounding. Forrest sat still, watching the scene unfold as several more gunshots rang, and I kept my head low at the sound of screeching tires, and the sickening crash of metal folding into metal. "Get out," Forrest said suddenly.

"What?" I asked, peeking up at him. No way was I going out into that warzone.

"Get out," he repeated, killing the motor of the Coupe, and I realized that he was coming with me. I grabbed for the handle of the door with shaking hands, trying to stay low as I slipped outside. Forrest was already there, keeping an eye on the battle. I dug in my coat pocket for my keys, and could feel a hand on the back of my neck, hurriedly guiding me up to the door of my building. I wanted to cry as I heard a bullet ricochet dangerously close to us, but Forrest's hand moved from my neck to my shoulder, and I could feel him against my back as he wrenched the door open and maneuvered me inside. "Keep going," he said, so I hurried on up the stairs to the second floor.

Damn near dropped the keys trying to unlock the door of my apartment, and once we were inside, I hurried over to the window to try to get a look at what was happening. A convoy of vehicles were lined against each other, and men, mere shadows in the night, were standing behind open doors, taking shots at each other. Between them, along some kind of strange no man's land, sat two vehicles that had struck each other head on.

Forrest was behind me, looking out the window over the top of my head. "What's going on?" I asked.

He glanced down his nose at me as I turned to look up at him in our close proximity. "Ain't our business."

"The hell it isn't," I spat. "Their business could've gotten us shot."

He returned his attention to the street for a long moment, then shifted his eyes back down to me. "Looks to me like the ATU is attemptin' a bust," he said.

"Do you know who they're busting?" I asked, and he gave a small shrug.

"Maybe. Come on away from the window, Miss Ellsworth. I bet they gon' be awhile."

I let him guide me away and over to the sofa, where we sat in silence as the sound of idled vehicles, shouts, and the pock and ping of gunfire echoed down in the street. Forrest had both feet planted firmly on the floor, forearms on his knees, and his hat in his hands. I kicked off my shoes and folded my legs underneath me, keeping me coat wound tight around me. Neither of us even bothered to turn on a light.

I was glad Forrest was there. He offered a strange sort of comfort in such an awful situation. If he'd been gone and they would've came, I bet I'd still be at the window, scared out of my wits and crying, watching as men tried to kill each other, dropping one by one, just heaps on the street. But Forrest kept me from watching. He wasn't scared, or anxious, or angry. Calmer than a baby after feeding. He'd seen me safely inside, and I bet he could've left, gone back to the station without any problem. But he stayed. And his presence brought on some sort of strange disconnect to the situation. They were just noises, outside, and it surprised me how calm I felt.

I suppose calm had translated into courageous at some point or another. Or maybe stupid. Either way, as the gunfire died, and the shouting increased, inaudible voices trying to angrily and desperately negotiate with one another, I unfolded my legs from underneath me, and slowly scooted toward Forrest. He remained hunched, his head tilted to the ground, but I could see him watching me from the corner of his eye. I took the hat by its brim, and it went slack in his hands. That was an encouraging sign on my part, and I bit back a smile as I tossed the hat onto the side table behind me. Leaning into him, mouth to his shoulder, I caught the whiff of smoke and nature, the strange, fresh scent of dirt and crisp air clinging to him. He turned his head toward me, and I sat up, grasping his chin lightly.

I didn't know what I was doing. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my cheeks burned, and I cursed myself for being so bold. But if I'd backed away then, it would look stranger than if I just went right ahead and did it. So I dropped my gaze from his curious grays to his lips, leaned in, and kissed him.

He responded, the plump bulges of his lips near enveloping mine as he pressed into them, and I could've died right there. I pulled away cautiously, only leaning back far enough to open my eyes and look at him. He was watching me through narrowed eyes, though his features were softer than I'd ever seen them. "What're you doin'?" he asked slowly.

"I don't know," I admitted breathlessly. "Trying something."

He regarded me, and I waited anxiously for a sign that would tell me what to do next. To relent, to continue. I couldn't tell, the man had an envious poker face. Finally, he released a breath I wasn't aware he'd been holding, slow and forced from somewhere within, and closed the distance between us.

* * *

_"Forrest had the sudden urge to take her in his arms and bury his face in her hair. It was unlike anything he had felt before. He drank his coffee and watched her some more and wondered to himself just how foolish he really was. **He wondered if this was the end of it, or if there was more, and just what it would take for him to learn.**" _Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 241.

_Have I mentioned how much I love reading your reviews? You guys give me such good ideas and a basis for future chapters, whether you realize it or not. Keep them coming, I beg you! I adore your feedback and opinions. Thank you so much for reading. :)_


	6. Snow Creek

**Dance With Me**

_-One Love Affair for Two-_

I don't think either of us knew what we were doing, but we were doing it anyway. Forrest and I, we walked away from that night with a secret between us, and I didn't see him for a while. That was all right by me. It left me hanging, but even I knew I couldn't put much weight on a kiss. People kissed all the time. Just for fun, because they were curious what it would feel like, because they were bored. The reasons were endless. The action didn't seal any sort of promise of some kind of future between us.

But when Forrest sought me out shortly after the New Year, it sure did give me hope. It was near the end of my shift when I'd walked by on my way to hang up my apron, and seen him standing outside, hesitating like he was debating whether or not to come in. "Forrest," I called out to him, and I must've caught him off guard, because he spun around mighty quick, removing the hat from his head. "What're you doing here?"

"Uhm-"

"Are you hurt?" I hurried over to the door to get a closer look at him, searching head to toe for sign of injury.

"No, I – ah," he began, shifting the brim of his hat in his fingers. He cleared his throat, and tried again, his voice coming out in a low grumble. "I was wondering if you, um, wanted to uh, go for a drive with me."

His gaze was steady as he waited for my answer, but I was speechless. He drove all the way out here to ask to drive some more? Bondurant men and their cars, I didn't get it. But he did drive all the way out here. And he was asking _me _to join him on his drive. "What, right now?" I asked.

He nodded, a quiet grunt erupting from the back of his throat as his eyes shifted to the side momentarily. "Where we going?" I asked, and he shrugged. I sighed, and looked past him. It was a little warmer than it had been the last few weeks, but the sun was rapidly setting, and the temperature would drop drastically with it. He had the TT with him, rickety old thing. I was in my nurse's uniform, and I sorely wished that I could change into normal, nicer clothing. But it was Forrest, and he was here, asking me to go with him. "All right," I said. "Wait here while I get my coat."

He nodded, but looked past me at the sound of footsteps, and I turned to see the Doctor proceeding from one corridor to another. He stopped to address me with a warm smile, but his gaze shifted as he realized I was talking to someone. "Forrest?" he asked, and a touch of alert was present in his tone. "Forrest, you all right? You hurt?"

"He's fine, Doctor," I said with a small laugh at his blatant concern. Forrest Bondurant shows up at the hospital, and we all expect the worse. "Forrest was just offering to drive me home."

"Well that's nice of ya, Forrest. I'll see ya tomorrow, Edie." The Doctor gave a nod and a smile to the both of us, and then continued on down his initial direction.

I didn't know what to do as we sat side-by-side in the cab. I wrung my hands in my lap, too nervous about the whole thing to look over at him, so I looked out the window instead. What were we supposed to do, were we supposed to talk? Talk about what? What if Forrest didn't want to talk, then what? Forrest kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, but he wasn't tense. Didn't look uncomfortable. He was just driving.

Whether or not he originally knew where he was going, Forrest seemed to navigate the roads with precise direction, and eventually, we were turning off the roads and down a heavily-driven path as I looked around curiously. We were on farmland. An old farmhouse painted white lay in the clearing at a distance, and beyond it acres of earth hardened by winter stretched across the open space. The whole property was surrounded by thickly wooded area, a semicircle of a dense collection of trees whose branches swung together like they were in some sort of embrace.

We drove right through the clearing and into the woods, the whole area becoming immensely darker. I glanced up at Forrest as the truck lurched and jumped against the difficult path. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be intentional. In no time, the thicket gave way to another clearing, and Forrest turned the nose of the truck around sharply to point it in the direction we'd come from. When the motor shuddered to a rest, Forrest opened his door. "Come on," he said.

Trees flanked the clearing, which stretched and winded farther than I could see. Tiny patches of snow still spotted the ground in thickly shaded areas, but the most of it had melted by now. In the middle of the clearing lay a body of water. A river of some sorts. It moved downstream in a steady current, encouraged by the weight of all the melted snow, providing a soothing rush that filled the air, like nature's music.

"What is this place?" I asked, stepping down to the water.

"Snow Creek," he said, and when I looked at him, he had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cardigan sweater, tilting back on the heels of his boots to look up at the sky. When I asked what we were doing here, he gave a high-shouldered shrug. "I like it here."

"It's gonna be dark soon."

"S'all right."

Forrest pulled on the latch, and the tailgate fell flat to reveal the bed of the truck. A couple wooden crates sat in the far left corner, up against the cab, and a quilt was spread along the wooden boards. I smiled to myself, thinking Forrest put a little thought into this. He hopped up into the bed and squatted, holding his hands out as he said, "Put a foot up." I did as he told, and put my hands in his. He gripped them gently, and when he stood he pulled me up easily, and my muscles tensed with the sudden weightlessness. We stood still for a moment, but then dropped down, and I fell onto my back as Forrest leaned against the crates.

The sky was a deep blue, only a hint of purple left as the first of the stars began to peek out. The moon was almost a full one, but wasn't doing much in the way of light as the sun fought to stretch its last rays over the sky before drowning on the horizon. A strike of a match drew my attention, and I tilted my head upward to see Forrest lighting a stump of rolled tobacco. He blew out a puff of smoke, and looked down at me. "You cold?"

"Yeah."

"I brought you somethin'." I sat up and angled toward him curiously as he twisted to fiddle with the jars in the crate behind him. He picked one up from somewhere in the middle, and instead of canned vegetables like the others had been, this jar was filled with amber liquid. Could've fooled me for honey, if it didn't move so easily inside. He held it out to me, and I took it with both hands.

"This your apple brandy?" I asked, turning it over in my hands.

"Yep."

"Thank you. Can I open it?" He flourished his hand in a gesture that said it was all mine, so I twisted the lid off, holding it in my hand as I brought the edge of the jar to my lips for a hesitant sip. The drink set my throat on fire and I grimaced, but relished in the sweetness that came after. With a small cough, I offered the jar to Forrest, and he took it.

We didn't drink all that much of the brandy. Just enough to feel warm, and a little more relaxed. My muscles tensed and burned there for a little bit, and it was a strange sensation. But when it let up, it felt nice to move. The stars shined extra brighter, and the moonlight turned everything blue.

"You were there," Forrest said after a long stretch of silence, as we lay side by side, eyes to the sky. I turned my head to find him looking at me. "After I fell. You took care of me."

"Yeah, I did," I admitted.

"Why?"

"Felt right."

Forrest eyed me for another minute, then turned his face back up to the sky. "Tell me somethin'."

"What?" I asked.

"Anything."

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion as I searched his face. But he kept on staring up at the stars waiting for me to begin. So I did, with the first thing that came to mind. I told him of my love of water, and how I can't live in a place without it close by. And that didn't make no sense to anyone, because of how much I hated rain and snow, and getting my clothes wet. I told him how I hated the winter, was absolutely miserable, and couldn't wait for spring to come. I'd take air so hot and thick with moisture you couldn't breathe over a cold wind any day, I told him.

I told him how I got to Franklin. On my way to Boston. I'd been all over home, but there just weren't any jobs, and I had to leave. I hated that I had to leave, but there wasn't anything left, really. My daddy died before he and mama could have anymore babies, and mama was so far gone in the head with age, she didn't know who I was anymore. I hitchhiked from town to town looking for employment, and just happened upon Rocky Mount by accident. The first thing I noticed was the quiet, and I liked that. I had no idea this was a shiner's county, and that came as a massive surprise. I asked around town about a job, and someone said try the hospital up the hill. That's when I met the doctor. He said they didn't have any positions at first, but then we got to talking, and he ended up liking me just fine. He set me up with a job that had a steady income, and told me where I could find housing. I think I loved that doctor. He was like a mentor, if not like a father to me. I always listened to him, which was why I was now saving wages for university someday. A little more every payday, put away in a coffee can somewhere safe.

I was thirsty as a camel by the time I finished, and grabbed for the brandy. It didn't do much in the way of quenching that thirst, but it'd have to do. When I settled back down, after a while, Forrest spoke. "I like when you talk."

I wasn't expecting him to say something like that, and it drew an expression of surprise from me mighty quickly, though I don't think he saw it. "I wish you'd talk," I said.

"Nothin' to say."

"Oh, I bet you have a lot of interesting things to say, Forrest Bondurant."

He turned to look at me, eyes shining in the glow of the moon. "Come here," he said. So I did, rolling onto my side and tucking up against him. I leaned on my elbow and hovered over him, though neither of us moved to kiss each other. I could feel his breath hot on my face, the smell of smoke and alcohol hovering in our proximity. Then I felt a hand at my head, fingers digging into the bunch of hair at the nape of my neck. He pulled a pin loose, and then another, watching the length of my hair tumble down past my shoulders. He fluffed out the strands gently, running his fingers down through to the ends as he considered the length. And I'm sure he could've done that all night, but I trembled with the effort of keeping myself from falling over him, and when it became unbearable I gave in and pressed my lips hard against his.

I fell onto my back as he rolled, and I could feel my head cradled in his hand, fingers stretched and pressed against my scalp, could feel his other hand slip under my coat to rest warm and possessively against my waist. A burning desire for this man surged through me. I don't know where it was coming from or where it was going, but it was hard to ignore, and I struggled to stop my hands from roaming the length of him. Instead I gripped him by the shoulder and held him close, my breathing ragged as he pressed into me.

My lips still tingled as I fingered the buttons of Forrest's cardigan sweater. His heartbeat was loud and steady against my ear, hand in a firm grasp at my waist. The temperature was rapidly descending as the night grew on, but Forrest ran hot and I hardly noticed. When I craned my neck to look up at him, he had an arm crooked behind his head, and his eyes were closed. "Forrest?"

"Hm."

"Dance with me."

He opened his eyes slightly, and slid them down to me. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Ain't no music."

"So?"

"Can't dance with no music."

"Sure you can."

His eyes opened a little wider, and he shifted to regard me at a better angle. "Why?"

"Because I'd like it," I said, mustering a small shrug. "Ain't no one around."

He seemed to be weighing his options, and whether or not he actually wanted to. But finally, and with a heavy sigh, he moved to sit up. He slid out of the bed to plant both feet on the ground, then turned to hold his hands out to me. I bent my knees and he gripped my hips, lifting me out of the bed to set me on my feet. I took his hand and led him down closer to the water, the moon shining a little brighter out of the shade of low-hanging branches. We stopped, and he lifted the hand that cupped mine, holding it out as he snaked an arm around me. I put a hand around his shoulder, and with another begrudging sigh from him, we began to sway side to side.

It was easy, moving with him. Stepping in time to our own pattern deciphered by the rushing current beside us. Our form became a little lazier, and I leaned into him, resting my head against his chest. I smiled to myself. _"Time on my hands." _The weight at the top of my head lifted, and I knew he'd raised his chin to look down at me. _"You in my arms. Nothing but love in view."_ I lifted my head to chance a peek at him, and found a puzzled scowl firmly set on his features. I grinned as I lifted his hand and spun myself out, but his grip tightened against my fingers as our arms stretched to their full length, and pulled me back to him. _"Then if you fall, once and for all." _We rotated to the soft, slow melody. The one we could hear in our heads, because I was sure my vocal tempo was way off. _"I'll see my dreams come true." _I stopped singing, deciding that was enough, and when I stopped singing, he stopped moving.

I leaned back to find his eyes searching my face, soft and blinking slowly. They narrowed briefly, and he grumbled, "Awful singer."

"I bet that was a grand heap better than you could do," I said.

He released a breath of laughter through his nostrils as his eyes narrowed further, and the corners of his mouth slowly tilted upward. I melted. I couldn't have ever imagined what that smile looked like before. But now that I'd seen it, I never wanted to forget.

He brought my head back down to his chest, and began to sway again.

* * *

_"Forrest acts like the toughest of the three brothers - they themselves ask this of him, while he wants to be an old woman." - Tom Hardy_

_Time On My Hands (You In My Arms) - Smith Ballew & His Orchestra, 1931_

_Oh yeah, I went there. But damn if it isn't a 1930s romance without some fluff. The amazing and kind reception of the last chapter inspired this one. Give yourselves a pat on the back, my wonderful muses. Let me know what you think! :)_


	7. Severe Punishment

**Dance With Me**

_-A Day Trip With Forrest Bondurant-_

"What do you think?"

I couldn't but laugh a little at Forrest's face. His features were impassive; solid as stone, but his gray eyes were wide and shining, unblinking as if he couldn't really believe what he was seeing. The wind whipped wildly, ceaselessly, but the sun was high in the sky and the air was warm. I pushed away the loose strands of hair flying into my face, but they quickly returned as I squinted up at Forrest against the glare of the sun.

Small waves lazily folded over each other and rushed up the sand, reaching as far as they could before springing back like a coil into the incoming surf. The sand didn't expand too far before turning into rock, but there was quite a distance from where we stood to the water. It was a beautiful, pleasant place, and it was all to ourselves. I gently fingered and pulled at the sharp blades of beachgrass as Forrest took it all in.

He showed up to my apartment before the sun had even risen, knocking on my door and waking me from slumber. I clambered out of bed, not bothering to hide my irritation as I wrenched the door open. It had been a long night at work, with a family driving off into a ravine up on Grassy Hill. Story was that the daddy was swerving to avoid hitting a deer. They ended up losing their youngest instead. Mama was in critical condition. I was looking forward to a day off after that one, and spending most of it in bed, trying to forget the bloodied, disfigured face of that broken four year old. Little Henry, his name was. I made the mistake of asking.

I didn't know if Forrest was there because he'd heard what happened the night before, or for his own reasons. He didn't say and I didn't ask. But my frustrations were none more than evanescent at the sight of him. He asked if I wanted to go somewhere, and I said sure.

I knew times were hard for Forrest. For everyone in Franklin County. They found the body of Charlie Rakes somewhere up Burnt Chimney by the county line. He wasn't hidden all that well, just tucked up under some bushes out by Maggodee Creek, like he'd been dragged just out of the line of easy sight, and then tossed aside. He would've been nothing but bone by then, being left out in the elements and all, but apparently they were able to identify him by his teeth. They called that something like_ odontology_ in the paper.

If it were in local hands, it would've been long negotiated and forgotten about. But it was the feds who were trying to make a case. This meant that every alleged bootlegger in the county was coming under fire. Especially those associated with Blackwater Station, who were still recovering from the effects of the sanctions by commonwealth attorney Carter Lee. They'd even put out a search for Maggie Beauford, since she disappeared. Everyone was a person of interest. Rakes had been found closer to the Blackwater Station than any other place, so suspicions were hammered hard on the Bondurants, since there were no other leads.

But no one said a damn thing. Not even Carter Lee. And this was either making the feds desperate, or they were beginning to smell something fishy about everything, because they started throwing around words like "conspiracy" and "racketeering". This whole thing was starting to look like it would turn out to be way bigger than a murder trial.

I don't think we'd been headed anywhere in particular when we left. I think Forrest's intention was to get away. He'd never done that before. He was a rustic at heart, born and raised in the hills, and never been anywhere else. But something in him wanted to change that, that morning, and I wasn't going to question him about it. Instead, he set me behind the wheel of his Coupe, taught me how to work the levers, what each of them did, and then directed me east.

We must've driven six or seven hours. Only stopped to fill the gas tank. When we hit water, I figured we ended up exactly where we were supposed to be. Drove along the coastline until we found that secluded little spot worthy of an afternoon of occupation.

I kicked my small heels off, and bent to pick them up as I stepped off from the gravel road onto the sand. It was soft and cold under my feet beneath the shade of the beachgrass, but as I stepped further out, it grew hot with exposure to the sun. As I turned to face Forrest again, shading my eyes with my hand, I dug my toes in the sand to get used to the temperature. "Come on," I called out to him. He watched me silently for a bit, hands in his pockets, brim of his hat low over his eyes. Then he took a few slow steps out toward me, keeping his eyes on his boots as they sunk a little in the clinging sand. When he was in front of me, I said, "Now take your boots and socks off."

He tucked his chin inward slightly, and his brow began to form a small scowl. "I ain't taking my boots off."

"Yes you are."

"No I ain't.

"Come all the way out here, you ain't even gonna try to enjoy it?"

"Enjoying it just fine."

"You're so damn stubborn," I said with a huff, and turned away, continuing to stomp on down the sand until I reached water. He'd join me eventually, but I wasn't going to wait for him. That man ran on his own time. I dropped my shoes and stepped out onto hard sand, lifting the skirt of my dress to watch my feet as I walked toward the water. When a shallow group of waves washed over them, I jumped a little and stepped back. Water was cold as hell up here.

I walked a little deeper, ocean water wrapping around my legs in an icy embrace. Made sure to keep the hems of my dress up and out of danger of getting wet. My feet sunk deeper into the sand each time the tide pulled, and when I lifted them up, the sand floated and fell from them in a tickle. Franklin County didn't have any of this stuff. An abundance of red clay. Covered everything in a thick coat of dust almost year-round, I noticed. But no sand, really.

There was a trickle unlike the sound of the rolling waves behind me, and I turned to find Forrest kicking at the water with his bare feet, looking past him to see his socks sitting in his boots beside my shoes. I smiled and walked over to him, steps heavy against the water's pressure. "Forrest, come in the water with me."

I grabbed his hands and pulled, and he followed me silently. I hated getting my clothes wet. Oh, how I hated it. But I let it happen anyway, the cotton material flowing freely around me as I led Forrest further out until I was mid-belly in water. We'd be here as long as we wanted. And the sun was hot. Plenty of time to get dry again. He didn't seem to mind getting wet, resting his hands on top of the rippling waves as he stared out over the vast expanse of ocean, glimmering in the reflection of the sun. I rested my forehead against his chest and closed my eyes.

Sometimes I wondered why I felt the way I did about this man, and if he wondered the same thing about me. It was unprecedented, unexpected, and overwhelmingly unwavering. I still worried about what feelings remained for Maggie Beauford; he kept a picture of the two of them resting on a small table in the sitting room above the station. But if there were any feelings, he hid them damn well from me. Never mentioned her. Didn't acknowledge she ever even existed, except for that picture. I knew I'd be dumb to bring it up, so I didn't. Forrest was good to me. That was enough.

"You still savin' money for school?" Forrest asked, out of the blue.

"Yeah," I sighed into the material of his sweater.

"How much you rent for?"

"Twenty dollars."

It was a stretch before he spoke again. "You know I got that spare room upstairs. It's yours, if you want it. Free of charge."

I lifted my head and took a step back, swaying in the current. "Free?" He nodded once, and my heart's pace began to quicken a little. My head and my heart were screaming to say yes. I'd be living with Forrest and saving my wages. It was a smart plan and a pleasant one too. But my gut contracted with hesitation. About his sincerity, about the implications of such an offer, about what could happen, being so closely connected to the Bondurants. Especially when they were under such dangerous scrutinizing from the government. "That's a long walk from the hospital," I finally said, desperate to formulate some sort of answer.

"You know how to drive," he said. "We got plenty cars."

Regardless of any hesitation, he was offering his help. And if I had any sort of philosophy, it was to accept help when it was offered. That twenty dollars saved each month would make a grand difference. It was Forrest. _Forrest._ The thought of seeing him every morning convinced my gut to begin churning in the right direction again. I hopped up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then wrapped him in a tight embrace around the ribs.

It only took a couple hours for our clothes to dry. With the wind and the heat combined, it was a speedy affair. We explored the length of the beach, climbing over the rocks at both ends to see where they would take us. Forrest had a hell of a time lighting a cigarillo in the wind. He had to crouch and huddle into himself like a hobo using a candle for heat. When the tide began to roll in, we hiked up further on the beach and planted ourselves among the beachgrass.

I think Forrest liked the ocean, but he didn't much like the sand. It was too soft and too gritty for him all at the same time, compared to the red clay he was used to, which came in three forms: hard compact, mud, or dust. The sand stuck between his toes and made them itch, and he continuously dusted grains off his pant legs, or took his sweater off to shake it out.

"So when can I move in?" I asked, leaning back on my elbows, head tilted toward the sun.

"Whenever."

"You have to make your own damn breakfast, Forrest."

"All right."

I turned my head and opened my eyes a little. He was on his side, looking at me. We watched each other for some time, and only the Lord knows what was running through his mind. But my thoughts were flying by a mile a minute, and most of them were concerned with how wrong I'd been about how hard it'd be, trying to love this man. "Forrest?"

"Hm."

"You ain't gonna go to jail, are ya?"

Nothing on his face changed. He didn't move, didn't scowl, didn't smile. Didn't even blink. Just kept watching me from under the brim of his hat. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not. I supposed not. If he was sure nothing was going to happen, he'd just go ahead and tell me. But he wasn't going to lie to me, either.

Without a word he reached for me, and I shifted myself closer to him. He lowered his head, and I felt his lips brush along the line of my jaw. He lifted those lips to my cheek, my temple, my ear, and I ached for his touch. Sneaky Forrest. He knew just how to get out of a conversation he didn't want to have.

I pushed his mouth away from me with my cheek, and leaned back to capture him in a kiss. He removed his hat and set it aside, on top of his discarded sweater. I hooked my hands in his suspenders and pulled him closer.

We were deaf and blind to the world, as far as I was concerned. Nothing else existed, just me and Forrest, and the sand beneath us. His touch was painfully gentle. Always was. He ran his mouth across my chest, and I could feel his fingers grip the short sleeve, pulling it away to plant soft kisses on my bare shoulder. At the same time his other hand was bunching up the material of my dress, and when he felt flesh, he ran his hand up the length of it. His hand was warm and calloused, wonderfully rough against my thigh.

The sand rushed over us from this level, and I bet I'd get an eyeful of the stuff if I dared open them. Forrest's mouth found mine again, and I felt his fingers leave my shoulder to scoop under my neck and lift my head. They moved a little higher, on the search for the pins in my hair. The wind pounded through my ears harshly, and I hardly heard the groan that escaped from somewhere inside Forrest as I pulled him into me.

But I heard the click. Loud and clear, like turning gears. Forrest heard it too, frozen against me. I think we both had already inferred what had made that sound. Weren't no strangers to it. But we hadn't yet figured out where it came from, or why it came at all. "Wouldn't be wise to make a sudden move," said a voice above us, deep and amplified against the wind, and I felt myself gasp with shock at how close it was. How had we not heard someone approach?

Forrest hooked the hand still in my hair and brought my face tight against him, lowering his body onto me a little more, like he was trying to hide me. "What you want?" he said from his position.

"Just yer money and yer car," said the voice. "Ain't nothin' personal, brother. You know times is hard."

I could feel the breath quickly leaving me, and it wasn't all from the weight of the man on top of me. Nothing to trust in a voice like that. They'd take the money and the car. Then they'd take our lives to cut loose ends and make sure we didn't ever come for them. Maybe Forrest couldn't die. But I sure could, and I didn't want to.

"Get up, slowly."

Forrest didn't move for a long while. Probably longer than what time he was allotted. But eventually, he slowly slid off me. When I finally opened my eyes, and they slowly readjusted against the vivid light of the sun, Forrest was standing, staring directly ahead with his hands held up in a defensive position. Behind him was a tall man, a little taller than Forrest, with a long-sleeve undershirt that may have been white once, but looked like it hadn't been washed in months. It was tucked into a pair of torn, dirtied brown slacks. He had a head of brown hair, and his skin was severely darkened, though I didn't know if by sun or dirt. I couldn't see the gun.

"Touch her, and you're gonna get yourself seriously hurt," Forrest said. It wasn't a general statement to the man behind him, but rather something else that his gaze was focused intently on. I sat up and turned around quickly, and my stomach did a flip when my eyes fell on another man only feet from me. He looked similar to the other man in manners of hygiene, but he was shorter, skinnier, with red hair and a bushy beard of the same color. The man watched Forrest following the warning, his eyes glowing with amusement when they slid down to me.

"You ain't in any position to be makin' threats, brother," the man behind Forrest said. "Just give us yer keys and yer money, and we'll let ya live."

I turned back to look up at Forrest. His face was impassive. He seemed to be contemplating his options. I wouldn't ever know if he'd actually chosen one.

Fingers gripped the bunch of my hair and pulled hard with force that had me scrambling to stand on my feet. I shut my eyes tight against the searing pain in my scalp, and I screamed as the man behind me pulled me into him roughly, holding me to him with an arm low around my belly. The scream caught in my throat with a gag at the smell of him, ripe and rotten as pig slop left in the sun. "We'll take the girl though," he announced, then lowered his voice, speaking against my ear, "Like Willie done said, it ain't personal, sweetheart. A man has needs."

I turned away from him, sobbing openly as he ran his hand over my breasts. I heard the gun go off and I figured they went ahead and killed Forrest, one right through the head, and I'd be next, as soon as they stripped me of everything but my name. I was unsatisfied with the life I'd lived, and it was an awful way to die. I'd be so angry and bitter at the gates, they'd fling me on down to Hell.

But the man released me, throwing me down into the sand, and when I opened my eyes, pushing the tears away and looked over, Forrest was standing. He grabbed my assaulter by the front of his shirt, face red as he threw him down to the ground. I couldn't bring myself to look away when he kicked the man hard in the side of the head with his bare foot. He stepped over, slipped his feet inside his boots, and then returned to the two forms lying in the sand. Forrest kicked my assaulter onto his back, and lifted his foot, bringing it back down onto the man's face. The man that had previously held the gun groaned and shifted, and so Forrest turned and landed three swift kicks into his abdomen, before returning to the other.

Forrest looked up suddenly from his task of rearranging my attacker's face into a bloody clump, as though he just remembered that I was there, and watching. "Go to the car," he ordered, with an authority I'd never heard out of him before. When I hesitated, he took a step toward me, and pointed up toward the vehicle. "Edie, go to the car."

I twisted, and began to hurry up the small hill through the beachgrass to the vehicle. I'd forgotten my shoes, but I didn't care. My brain was jumbled, and I was confused, a little scared. My body felt like it needed washing a hundred times over. I could still smell the rot of that man on me. That man didn't even have a face no more.

When I reached the Coupe, I turned to look down at Forrest once more. His hat was back on his head, and his sweater draped over his arm, gaze dropped to the ground as he slipped a pair of brass knuckles over the fingers of his right hand.

* * *

_"He was alive, and that meant he would suffer much more before the night was out. It amazed Forrest that so many men seemed to wake up in the morning, needing some kind of beating or another, men saying and doing fantastic things for the sake of getting another man to smash his face...Forrest figured if these men wanted it he might as well give it to them. Either way he would push him off into the ditch and break his legs and if the man died then it was his own fault." _Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 38.

_I love you all. There isn't much else to say. Just wow. Thank you so much for your overwhelming support of this story. Please keep it coming, you have no idea how encouraging it is. Thank you again. Best readers I've ever had :)_


	8. Shoulda Coulda

**Dance With Me**

_-The White Dress-_

I suppose I understood now why people were afraid of the Bondurants.

Forrest walked back to the car as calmly as when he stepped out of it, carrying my shoes with him. He'd washed his hands off in the ocean, but blood stained the sleeves of his shirt, especially deep around the cuffs, splatters and smears along his pants. I felt myself stiffen when he climbed in the cab, taking his place behind the wheel.

I'd witnessed murder. At least I thought it was murder. Sure didn't look like they were living, after the damage Forrest had done. That red-haired man, my assaulter, Forrest spent a lot of time on him. I couldn't much see from the car, but when I was still on the beach, he went and crushed his nose right in and kept stomping. Blood ran from his eyes to his chin and everywhere in between, dripping off his beard and absorbing in the sand. I never seen anything like that. Not even little Henry's disfigurations last night had been so gruesome.

Those men would've killed us. They would've shot Forrest. Then they would've violated and shot me too. They deserved what Forrest dealt them. But nothing would've prepared me for the sight of it.

I could smell the sweat and saltwater on Forrest, and it was likely to identify that misplaced coppery scent as blood. He didn't start the motor of the car immediately, sitting and staring at the steering wheel instead. "You hurt?" he asked, after awhile.

"No," I whispered, but even my breath shook. I inhaled deeply, willing myself strength and composure. "Forrest, those men-"

"Drifters, Edna," he interrupted, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. His head eventually followed his gaze. "Nobody gonna miss 'em."

I turned away, glancing quickly out the window at the two lumps on the beach. "Did you kill 'em?" I asked.

"No," he said, and I believed him. "They'll live long enough to regret every mistake they ever made." I believed that, too. I heard that before you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Some deaths happen pretty quickly, so I guess it was a speedy process, running through everything. Those men didn't look all that old, either. They'd die there, on that beach. That little stretch of paradise we'd called ours for a day. It amazed me how quickly and easily the evils of the world could come and snuff the light out of anything. Forrest was no stranger to this. He'd adapted a long time ago.

I didn't. I was cherishing my naivety more than ever, and I'd hold onto my damn light as long as I possibly could. Even if that'd make for a challenging task, while being romantic with a bootlegger notorious for his brutal violence and inability to die. The only thought that kept running through my head was whether or not Forrest was worth it. What we had was blooming, in its early stages where things was new and exciting. I didn't yet know what I was looking for out of Forrest, and I don't think he knew what he wanted out of me. It wasn't too late to get out, and while the hurt of leaving him would be rough, it would be short-lived.

Forrest had a number on him. I was a law-abiding citizen. He was a fighter. I was a healer. He lived and led a whole life I knew nothing about, except for what I was told by others. The more I knew, the more I didn't want to. He had blood on his hands, blood on his name, and he didn't seem the least bit concerned or remorseful for it. It was just the way of living in Franklin County.

I should've gone to Boston. The thought made me fidget in my seat as we drove, and I leaned against the door, keeping my eyes out the window. Should've blown right through Franklin and chanced finding employment up north. There was plenty businesses up there; I bet I could have found a low-wage seamstress job to keep me busy. Or maybe be a telephone operator. Instead I landed in a shady county and bided my time fixing criminals and corrupt law enforcement after they try to kill each other. This was not the life I was meant to lead. This place was not my home. The Doctor was adamant on getting me out of Franklin. I was beginning to see why. I ain't told him I was seeing Forrest. I bet if I did, he'd knock me asleep, tie me up, and send me on the first train out of there.

It was nearing the early hours of the morning when Forrest rolled into Blackwater Station. I'd been sleeping for a while, but the sudden quiet woke me and I shot up, looking around. Several cars were parked around the lot. Men waiting for Forrest to return, I reckoned. It was Saturday night, which usually meant business. More would be arriving soon.

I slipped into my shoes and walked myself on up into the station. A small group of strangers were immersed in a game of poker at a table near the furnace. They didn't acknowledge me with more than a quick glance. Jack and Howard sat at the bar in front of the grill, heads dropped and eyes squinted like they'd been concentrating hard on the details of the wood.

Forrest came up from behind and took me by the shoulder, guiding me over to the empty stool beside Howard. "The hell happened?" Howard asked, eyeing the blood on Forrest's shirt.

"It's taken care of," was all Forrest said, before lighting a cigarette, taking a puff, and handing it off to me. I took it, not realizing my hands were shaking until I had to master grasping the thin roll between my fingers. He removed an empty glass from a cupboard, and filled it with a couple snorts worth of corn whiskey from the open jar in front of Howard. Forrest passed that off to me as well. I supposed it was his way of helping. "Jack, fix her something to eat," he said as he walked away, headed toward the table of card players.

I kept my eyes on the burning end of the cigarette, but could hear as Jack bounced off his stool, stepping over to the cooler to see what he had to work with. A late-night narrative broadcasted in low volume on the radio. After another moment, Howard stood with a sigh, picking his hat up off the bar and placed it on his head. When I looked up, he was headed to join Forrest and the other men. I learned that Howard was the bulking shadow that stood behind Forrest during transactions. A silent, watchful giant that made sure business was dealt smoothly and fairly.

Exhaling a stream of smoke, I turned away and focused my attention on Jack, who was in the process of opening a can of beans. I needed to go upstairs. My place wasn't in the presence of their business. I didn't want to see it, or hear a word they said. If the law ever connected me to the Bondurants, I wanted to honestly say I didn't know a damn thing about any operation.

I reached over and stopped Jack before he could dump the beans into a warming pot. "I ain't all that hungry, Jack," I told him.

Jack paused, his dark eyes shining as he regarded me. He set the can down, shut off the heat, and leaned into the counter, speaking lowly, "Miss Edie, what happened?"

My eyes shifted to Forrest. His back was turned and he was in quiet discussion with the card players. "We just ran into some folks lookin' for trouble, is all," I said lightly, forcing the corners of my mouth up in a small smile. Jack was so young, but he had perfected the Bondurant stare, and when they used it, it had an unnerving, exposing effect. My gaze dropped as I brought the cigarette back between my lips, wishing my hands would stop shaking.

The door to the station opened, catching our attention as more men stepped inside. I slid off the stool, taking the drink with me as I made my way back toward the staircase. I'd only been around for maybe three transactions, and I knew they were quick. These people didn't have any time to spare. They bought and sold from each other, handed Forrest their dues for either using his facility or purchasing his liquor, loaded up, and went on their merry way. Didn't know where they went; I assumed some of these men were part of the caravan that rolled through Rocky Mount toward the county line. An orderly line of vehicles would stretch around the perimeter of the lot, and would leave in a single succession. And things was still pretty slow, Jack once told me. People were still getting over their nerves and hesitations about doing business with the Bondurants again. I could've only imagined what Blackwater Station looked like before the commonwealth attorney put those sanctions on them.

I stopped at the top of the stairs and pulled on the chain that clicked on the small light overhead. I could already hear the chime of glass jars bumping into each other in crowded rows downstairs. There were three rooms upstairs, and I didn't know which one I wanted to be in. I didn't want to be in any of them. I wanted to be home, with my mama when she remembered who I was, in Union Parish. The sitting room sat over the porch, with a window looking over the lot, and I didn't much feel like witnessing any more illegal activity. There wasn't much more in Forrest's room than a stiff chair and a straw tick, and both were horribly uncomfortable.

There was a small lamp sitting atop a chest of drawers in the spare room, and I kicked off my shoes before turning it on. This had been Maggie's room before, and I suppose it would be mine too, if I ended taking Forrest up on his offer. I looked about the room, and then sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, the frame squeaking underneath me. An oval-shaped mirror mounted on the back of the chest of drawers displayed my reflection, and I felt a numbness settle in as I took in the sight of me. Hardly felt the burn as I emptied the glass in my hand with several staccato chugs.

The pins in my hair were skewed and left useless, only clumping strands together at the ends while the rest fell loosely in a mess around my neck and shoulders. The bit of mascara I'd put on my eyelashes that morning now lay in a stained heap under the lower lids of my eyes. The material of my dress was wrinkled and stiff from the saltwater, and there were smears of dirt tainting the light color where that man had touched me with his filthy hands.

I hoped the memory of his scent would fade quickly. It came to me suddenly in a faint whiff, the musty, putrid scent of a human decomposing from the inside out. My stomach churned, and a gag forced its way up my throat and another followed it, eyes tearing up and spilling over with the awful feeling.

There wasn't any understanding the ways of the world. No sense trying. Why did men have to disobey the law to make money? Why did violence define their power? Forrest and me, why did we choose that beach, on this particular day at that particular time? What drove those two men to justify their reason in committing ghastly acts of desperation? Only God knew.

The spare room was kitty-corner to a narrow water closet. I wiped my eyes as I tiptoed out through one door and into the other, clicking on the light as I went. I turned on the faucet and let the water run as I stripped my dress off. If I stayed, I'd make Forrest put in a tub. I didn't care where he put it, and I didn't mind filling it up with my own hot water. He may have been fine scrubbing himself down with well water in the yard, but I sure wasn't. I cupped my hands under the cold water and splashed it over my face, then removed the pins from my hair, setting them side by side on the sink beside the bar of soap.

I picked my dress up off the floor, held it under the water, and scrubbed the material together. I scrubbed hard. I scrubbed until my fingers went numb against the icy water, only stopping to assess the stains made by my assaulter. If there was even a hint of him left in the fabric, I rubbed soap over the area, and then scrubbed some more. I couldn't get it out. I couldn't get _him _out. And it was a damn shame because this dress was so pretty. I'd worn this dress because I knew Forrest would like it, even if he didn't say so. He always looked at me more when I wore white. Now it was stained and I couldn't ever wear it for him again.

The door swung open with a slow creak, and Forrest stood in the doorway. I looked up at him, and felt the heat in my face from labor and frustration. My hands ached, fingers throbbing, desperate for warmth and rest. I'd been at those stains for some time. Forrest didn't come upstairs until the customers were gone, the station was all closed up, and he'd counted the night's earnings, putting it in the books and tucking it away somewhere only he knew. I turned the faucet and stopped the stream of water, looking down at the dress, upper half piled and soaked through in the sink.

A heavy silence fell over us, and I rubbed my hands dry on the silk of my girdle, flexing my swollen fingers to get some feeling back into them. Forrest was a damn apparition in the corner of my eye as he leaned on the doorframe watching me. Couldn't even hear him breathe. After awhile he pushed himself off the frame and turned away, the steps of his boots against the floorboards echoing to some other part of the apartment. I was left standing, growing cold in my sudden conscious awareness of where I was and what I'd been doing, wondering if I was supposed to go to him.

But he returned, each progressive step growing louder and louder, and when he appeared again he held the quilt from his cot. Without a word, Forrest stretched the length of the quilt out behind me and folded it over my shoulders, cocooning my body in a welcomed warmth. He led me out of the water closet and down the stairs, over to the barstools where he sat me down and cooked me an omelet and didn't move until he'd seen me clear my plate.

I put my fork down and looked up at him as I swallowed the last bite. He nodded once and turned away.

* * *

_"Forrest is a matriarch, not a patriarch...I have to play the mother role and yet manage the danger." -Tom Hardy_

_"[In heaven] All the stories, all of our lives, will be sung like hymns. That's how we'll remember them. That's why it all means something. The problem is that we have to live in this world first, we have to bear it." _The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 279.

_Everyone copes with the aftermath of a traumatic event differently. For Edna, I hoped to portray her in the early stages of "what the hell...?" She knows, and she understands what she experienced. The attackers were awful, and on top of that she watched Forrest pound two men to near death. She does not yet realize the effect it will have on her, and her relationship with Forrest. She adores him, but his lifestyle scares her. It's not an easy one to adapt to. I hope I was able to portray those emotions and that process of evaluating the decisions that have effected/will effect her present/future at least decently. _

_In response to the subject being brought up about what Forrest smokes! I appreciate that coming to attention. I do like to correct mistakes where they need correction. I realize that in the movie he smokes these fatty rolls. In the book it mentions cigarettes and cigarillos. It was a conscious decision on my part to have him smoke cigarillos, since it's somewhere in between a cigarette and a cigar. Hell, let's have him smoke all three! The man loves his tabacca. However, I WILL correct an unintentional mistake that I noticed myself. Forrest uses iron knuckles, not brass knuckles. _

_Alrighty, lovely readers. I love you all, and I anxiously await your feedback. Please, do let me know what you think about the story. You know how your opinions spark fierce inspiration which result in speedy updates. You just have that affect on me :)_


	9. Another Life

**Dance With Me**

_-A Rock and a Hard Place-_

It was nearing early afternoon by the time I arrived at the hospital. A light breeze was rustling the leaves of the trees, and the cicadas were feeling mighty talkative. Their shrill buzz cut through the thick air and echoed around the quiet property as I climbed out of the Chevrolet that Forrest had given me. It was a pretty little thing, blue as a midnight in New Orleans, and had been sleeping out back behind Blackwater Station. I was putting it to good use.

Things were always quiet when I came in around this time of day. Now that I had transportation, I could work later shifts, which also meant I didn't have to come in first thing in the morning anymore. The change seemed to work out for everybody; most of the nurses were wives and mothers, and couldn't stay too late into the evening. The hospital appreciated the extra help at night. By the time my day was over, unless there was a scheduled run, Forrest would be closing up the station and I would arrive to a quiet, empty place. He knew I liked it that way.

I hurried to seek relief from the scorching sun, dropping my hand from shielding my eyes once under the shade of the porch surrounding the building. It was going to be an awful summer in Franklin. It came early, like I'd wished, but was bringing with it a record drought. They made the prediction last month, and we hadn't seen a drop of rain since. A constant overcast trapped the heat in. It felt like sitting next to a blazing fire, wrapped twice around in heavy wool blankets all the time. Dust hung in the air everywhere we went, and I swear it was turning everyone into housecats. Breathe enough of it in, and suddenly all anyone wanted to do was eat and sleep. They were impatient as all hell, yet moved at half the speed they were capable of. Wasn't like I wasn't guilty of it either. The heat had crept in, and it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. I found myself wishing for just a day of snow. Or rain, or anything that would provide some sort of relief from a summer just getting started.

The Doctor was in the small staff room when I walked in to slip on my apron. He was conversing with some man I never seen before, dressed in a nice three-piece suit. I wondered how he could bear so many layers on a day like this, but I didn't say anything to him about it. The man looked professional and I didn't want to speak out of turn. I figured it was an associate of the Doctor's. Maybe an accountant, or an old friend, though the stranger looked at least twenty years the Doctor's junior.

"Afternoon, Doctor," I said quietly as I slipped the neck of the apron over my head and stretched to tie the strings behind my back.

"Hello, Edie," he peered over his spectacles at me with a soft smile. "Say Edie, you got a minute before you go out there?"

My gaze shifted to the stranger peering silently at me, but only for a moment. "Sure," I said, stepping forward. "What you need?"

"Edie, come sit down," the Doctor pulled out the empty chair beside him, adjacent to where the stranger sat, and I had a feeling that this man was far from an accountant. I felt myself hesitate, heart jumping all around in my chest, but I slid into that chair, knowing I looked like a child in trouble, waiting to be chided for my wrongdoings. "Edie, this here is a man from Richmond," the Doctor explained, "and he's hoping he could talk to you. I'll let him introduce himself."

I turned my head to focus on the stranger, and he gave me a winning smile. The smile of a salesman; one that said I could reap the benefits of cooperation, but that cooperation would come at a price. Somewhere deep inside me registered who this man was before he opened his mouth. But he did open his mouth, and what he said made me want to run. Run from the hospital, run from the county, run from the state and never look back.

"Afternoon, Miss Ellsworth. My name is Jacob Lehman. I'm a Senior Special Agent for the Bureau of Investigation." He extended his hand, and I grasped it briefly in silence. Suddenly I preferred the thought of roasting outside in the sun to having to talk to this man. "I'd tell you why I'm here and why I'd like to talk to you, but I'm sure you already have some kind of idea." He flashed me another one of those smiles, and I wondered if my life was about change drastically within the next few minutes.

Agent Lehman looked past me to the Doctor. "Dr. Andrews, thank you for speaking with me. It was a pleasure to meet you, but I was hoping to speak with Miss Ellsworth alone."

This was bad. I knew it was bad. I was going to be interrogated, and I was going to be horrible at hiding what I knew. I was going to let something slip without realizing it, and it was going to get the Bondurant brothers locked up. Probably get myself locked up, too. I looked at the Doctor, and I could tell he saw my worry by the way his lips tightened in a thin smile. His brow furrowed a little, and when he stood he gave my shoulder a light squeeze. His white coat rustled behind him as he walked out the door, and when he shut it behind him, I forgot how to breathe.

"May I call you Edna?" Agent Lehman asked, capturing my attention again. I nodded. At my consent, he produced a crème-colored folder that must've been hiding in his lap under the table, and flipped it open. He picked up two photographs and slid them towards me. "Have you ever seen either of these men before?"

The face of the man on the left was long and bony, with a strong jaw and a straight nose. He had hooded eyes, and dark hair parted thickly down the middle, slicked back with grease. The other was a stout man, with a short face and small, dark eyes, and a hairline receding into thinning gray curls at the top of his head.

"I don't know this man," I said lowly, pushing the first picture forward. "But this other one, that's Carter Lee. The commonwealth attorney." When I looked up, he was scrutinizing my every move, rivaling Forrest in the art. I hoped he believed me, because it was the god-honest truth. Though, I could probably take a gander at the identity of the first man, and come up right.

Agent Lehman reached a hand across the table to pick up the photograph of the first man. Instead of withdrawing his hand, he leaned forward and offered the photograph to me. I took it from him, holding it delicately between my fingers as I wondered why he was giving it to me.

He sat back in his chair with a quiet huff. "That man right there is Charley Rakes. I know you've heard that name before."

"Yeah," I admitted. "He was a prohi. They found his body out along Maggodee few months ago." I tried to hand the photograph back to him, but he stopped me.

"Edna," Agent Lehman leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he folded his hands together on the table. He spoke softly, "We understand that you have a close connection to the Bondurant family, and might feel inclined to protect them with your silence. In all truth and honesty, your silence will have the exact opposite effect."

I tried to form my words carefully before voicing them. "I ain't exactly sure what you're wanting from me, sir."

He shifted into a comfortable position, and an easy smile stretched on his thin lips. "Look, you seem like an intelligent woman, Edna. And you aren't from around here. Neither am I. These people are born of a different stock, which is why I have no trouble telling you that we have more eyes around here than these backwater hicks know how to count. We know of every moonshine operation in the county. We know what they're doing, who's doing it, and how much they're getting paid."

I didn't understand. "Well, then why do you need to talk to me, if you already know all of that? Why don't you go bust 'em all?"

"Because some things are more important than others," he explained. "The Prohibition was a mistake if I ever saw one. It's closing on its final days, due to end any time now. The big operations? Sure, we'll hunt them down and try to clear them out. But our priority is in racketeering. Do you know what that is?"

"Not exactly."

"It's sort of like a business agreement between two parties. A 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' kind of deal. We're seeing a lot of it throughout the country, and it's coming in the form of law officials allowing bootleggers to safely run their businesses for a fee. Now we want to catch these officials and deliver them justice. Put them away where they belong, because if they see no problem in aiding criminals in illegal alcohol distribution for money, it's hard to predict what else they'd be capable of doing. Do you understand?"

I allowed my brain the time to filter through that information before responding. "I suppose. You think that's happening here?"

"Yes," he said. "We suspect the commonwealth attorney and Agent Rakes were in charge, but it takes a whole lot more to build a case than just suspicion. We need evidence, and testimonies from credible witnesses to back the claim up. The people here look out for their own self-interests, so with the right prodding they'd turn on anyone. Slip a couple dollars into the front pocket of a man's shirt, and he'll tell you anything you want to hear. So it has been confirmed that Rakes and Carter Lee had some kind of deal with the bootleggers, but the credibility of the men who made those statements will have trouble holding up in court."

"I don't know all that much about it, sir," I said, though I don't think he believed me. "I don't think I could be much help to you."

"Actually, I think you could be of great help to us." Agent Lehman sucked in a breath and glanced down as he flipped over a page in the folder open in front of him. "A common response among those that we talked to was that the Bondurants refused to pay any kind of fee to the commonwealth attorney. If this is true, and we could get the brothers to testify to it, we could have ourselves enough to present this case to the grand jury."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Before I say, I need to ask you something first. I apologize if the question is forward and inappropriate, but it's important for us to know. Are you married to Forrest Bondurant?"

The question made my heart jump, and I could feel the heat rising in my face. Why would he need to know that? "No, sir," I said.

"Do you plan to marry him?"

"I-I don't know." Why was that important?

"Would you cease intimate association with Forrest Bondurant if it meant his freedom?"

My eyes snapped to his, and he patiently waited for my answer. "What do you mean by that? You said they had nothing to do with that racketeering."

"But they are active bootleggers, confirmed in documentation," Agent Lehman said lightly, shifting to cross his legs. "We know they murdered Agent Charley Rakes last spring. We are willing to set those two facts aside if they agree to testify against Carter Lee and those who involved themselves in the racket. If they don't, then they'll be tried separately on those counts, and be put away."

It wasn't fair. But I suppose fairness was something illusory when it came to a man on a mission. The brothers seemed to be the only thing standing between these feds and outing an entire conspiracy. They'd do what they had to, to gain their cooperation. "What if I said yes? To – you know." I couldn't bring myself to say it.

"Then you would give a statement legitimizing the innocence of the Bondurants. As you live at their station, you are a key witness on the inside. You see and hear things that the rest of us don't. Your testimony would back up others in confirming that the Bondurants were not involved, but yours alone will solidify their credibility. If anyone finds out you are involved with Forrest Bondurant, _anyone, _the defense will deem you a bias witness and your statement will be worthless."

It made sense, though I didn't want it to. I'd lie for Forrest if it meant his freedom. And though I wouldn't be lying in this case, I could see why some might suspect I would. Humans go to great lengths to defend their loved ones. The image of Forrest standing on the beach between two large heaps in the sand flashed through my mind, and I fought a shudder.

Agent Lehman rubbed his chin as he regarded me, allowing me the time to collect my thoughts. He was an extremely patient man, and I didn't doubt that he was excellent at his job. "Dr. Andrews speaks fondly of you, you know," he said suddenly, and I looked up into his face. "Says you're a real smart woman. Real kind. A headstrong kind of gal. And you like art?"

I tilted my chin back a little, and could feel the apprehension rising in my chest. He shifted the conversation for a reason, and it couldn't be anything good. "Yeah," I told him.

He gave a wide smile, one that flashed a set of straight teeth. "Me too," he said. "You know, I met Patrick Henry Bruce once, about ten years ago, just walking around New York."

My voice was flat when I said, "I don't know who that is."

He snorted quietly, and glanced down at the folder briefly. "That's right; Dr. Andrews said you were fonder of eighteenth century movements. Rococo, neoclassicism and such? I have something for you, Edna." He thumbed through a small collection of loose papers, gathering them together and handed them off to me. I skimmed over the top page but did not read it. "That is an application to UVA. Now the deadline for fall admission has already passed, but the bureau is willing to pull strings and get you in and pay for the first year for your cooperation in this case." He paused, before continuing in a softer tone, "You understand, that once you give your statement and you leave for the University, you can't come back here."

"Why?"

"Because we cannot allow the risk of someone connecting you to them." He stressed his seriousness with a hard stare and a pointed gesture of his hand. "Right now, the people of Franklin see you as a woman stopping by long enough to make some money on your way to somewhere else. They assume you stay at the Bondurant station for cheap rent in exchange for working the grill on the weekend. They don't suspect your relationship with Forrest Bondurant extends beyond that. But they will. Accuse a man of a crime, and he'll be searching for any excuse that might get him out of trouble. You'll make your statement, you'll go to the University in the fall, and you'll move on with your life. The only time you will come back here, is during the trial when you are scheduled to testify."

I brought the back of my hand up, fingers to lips as I stared down at the application. The brothers would agree to testify. I knew they would. They didn't owe any of those people anything, and if it meant their freedom, it was good enough for them. They would return the justice that Carter Lee paid to them, and to all the other moonshiners that had turned their backs on them when they refused to join the conspiracy.

But their word had to be trusted in a court of law, and I suppose I was the one who was able to say it could be. I didn't understand the legal system, and why it had to be like that. But Agent Lehman did, and he was adamant about it. If I left, it was a goodbye to Forrest that couldn't be undone. It was for forever, but it would mean his freedom. If I refused to go, it could crumble the case that was building, and it could mean losing him anyway to a guilty sentence and jail time.

The answer was clear, and my decision was made almost instantly. I thought of Forrest, of waking up next to him while he still slept. Still and straight on his back, eyes closed, chin tucked, and brow furrowed in a natural scowl. I would rise up on one elbow, and Forrest was such a light sleeper. He would always hear it, or feel it, or maybe both, and his lids would part to reveal those shining grays. They'd squint a little, and then eventually close again. But then he'd shift, and his arm would be around me, tucking my head down into that little crook between his neck and shoulder. I wished we'd met in another life, Forrest and me.

* * *

_"The next hurt is always coming, always close by, Forrest had said. The only way through it is to bury it deep in your gut and let the hot juices work on it for a while. Soon enough you forget whatever it was that pained you to begin with." _The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 70.

For those of you reading my Warrior story, I'm so sorry about the extended wait on a new chapter. I'm taking extra time on it due to the sensitive subject matter, but it should be up within a week. So sorry!

The next few chapters are going to be character studies. I feel like I'm flying through the progression of Edna and Forrest's relationship to establish a plot. Now that I have, we're going to slow it down a little and really get to know and understand what they feel for each other, and why they feel that way. Take a peek into day-to-day life with Forrest. I hope you won't mind that ;)

All right! Let me know what you think! I know you'll have some opinions about this one.


	10. Human Nature

**Dance With Me**

_-The Way of Nature, the Way of Grace-_

_June 1932_

There is a place; a small nook in the corner of the world. It rests beside a gleaming lake so wide that the coppice and woodland stretching along the terrain of the opposite side were simply a blend of browns and greens. The water is tepid year-round, warmed by the deposit of a volcano that had erupted decades ago. When you walk knee-deep into the lazy ripples of a wind-blown current, schools of tiny fish swarm your ankles and nibble at your toes. Pleasant, harmless little creatures. A dock of weathered wooden planks stretches out into the water, and sitting at the end, tied by rope to the pillars and quietly knocking into the planks against the current, is a lone white rowboat.

Past the water there is a thin beach of the softest white sand. Softer than any sand ever felt anywhere, and beyond that a velvety green lawn extends up to a large garden, blooming with different grasses, thick verdant stalks erected high from the soil, and earthbound flowers lying low within the leaves of their neighbors in tiers and tangled vines. The property is cleared of grove and thicket in the shape of a half-circle and along the perimeter old pines and furs stand together in a dense forest, tall and proud, their limbs stretching for the sky.

There is a house that sits at the center of this property, its exterior a clean ivory. One floor rests on top of another, and an elevated porch wraps all the way around. The roof is slanted and shingled, the windows flanked by shutters as green as a shaded pasture of Emerald Isle. Inside the rooms are spacious, and peppered with handmade furniture that had been constructed in a small shop resting as a separate structure to the side of the house. This house was built nail by nail, board by board to coincide the vision dreamed by a woman a man loved very much.

To the west of the house, that man is standing with his hands on his hips. He wears a soiled undershirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tan trousers are held up by thick elastic straps folding over his shoulders and crossing over his back. In front of him a young boy grasps a heavy axe in a careful position. He has dark hair, and ears that jut out from the sides of his small head. The boy's lips are tightened with focus on the task before him. He grips the axe tightly with his small hands, and under his father's instruction swings it back, bringing the blade down into the exposed wood of the tree trunk in front of him. He releases the handle, the blade stuck in the wood at an angle, and turns to wait for either criticism or praise at the job he'd done. The man grasps the boy by the shoulder, shifting to smooth the hair on the back of his head, and the boy knows that he has done well.

Two girls, younger than the boy but not by much, run barefooted in the yard. Both girls are blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties – genes they inherited from their father. But as they chase frogs hopping over the blades of grass in an effort to escape the eager pursuers, they moved and laughed in a harmonizing grace that unmistakably came from their mother.

She stands knee-deep in the lake water, at peace with the scene that is her home and her family. She feels a tickle along her ankles and feet as the tiny fish brush by. She places a hand on the firm bump of her stomach, and prays for a boy. It would be wonderful if their eldest could have a brother. The man – her light, her foundation, her strength – he wants a large family. He wants the affirmation, the reassurance that no matter what might happen to tear them apart, none of them would ever be left alone in this world. She would give that to him.

In this corner of the world, there was no reason to earn your keep by means of illegal activity. Here, the economy flourishes and only continues to grow. The man, a skilled carpenter and businessman, splits his time between a thriving sawmill and a small shop selling canned goods and tobacco in the heart of town, much like the one his daddy used to own. The woman teaches history at the local schoolhouse, and volunteers once a week at the hospital.

I can see this place so clearly. There is nothing in the world that will destroy this life that they have built together. I can see it. The man and woman lock gazes. Their expressions are blurred by distance, but their thoughts and intentions are as clear as if they were written on paper, or spoken in sweet whispers behind closed doors and bed sheets in the comfort of night. I see it. They look at each other, and they know. They know that every hardship and battle, every war won and lost, every decision they ever made has led them to that moment, and they know that they would relive each and every one of them if it would lead them there again. They know that this is their life, and it is beautiful. They know that they had finally done right by someone, and it had been each other.

Humans are selfish creatures. And there isn't anything too terribly wrong about that, it's just our nature. We live our lives day by day, never really thinking about it too much. We establish schedules, and we do not stray. We make goals, and direct our passion and our focus into them. We never stop to look at the world around us. Why would we? It's our environment, our home, we see it every day. It isn't anything new. We take the ones we love for granted. We stop going that extra mile to remind them exactly what they mean to us. We don't tell them we love them as often. We assume they already know. The world is changing. It's growing, shifting, developing at a speed we've never seen before. And we change with it. If we are to keep up, how could we allow the time to tend to the little things? We can't afford to.

That all changes, when the world as you know it is about to end. I didn't ever really see Franklin, not for what it was, until I left the hospital to return to Forrest. Rolling hills and mountain landscapes, half-timbered farmhouses tucked into pristine, endless woodland. Roads were few and precipitous, and they all led down slope into the valley, where lay Rocky Mount. Creeks and streams slithered every which way throughout the terrain, joining together in some places to flow as a single power before parting ways again in separate directions. The birds sang and the cicadas buzzed and the trees whispered excitedly in an ever-present breeze. And yet the world was quiet here.

At the sound of a running motor and tires rolling over gravel, Mr. Dillon stepped out from behind the side of the station to greet the visitor. Everett was a tall and dark man who worked the gas pump, and when he saw it was me he tipped his hat and disappeared once more. I vowed to talk to him more. To ask him about his wife and baby, and offer up my assistance should they ever need anything. I'd invite him and his family for dinner one night, and I'd make sure they knew how wonderful an employee we thought Everett was. He was hardworking and loyal to Forrest, and Forrest trusted him dearly. He'd have a job at the Station as long as he wanted it.

There were no cars in the lot except Forrest's Coupe and his TT. It was still early in the afternoon; not even the brothers had bothered coming in yet. I parked the Chevrolet next to the old truck, and sat for a moment as I listened to the hiss and crackle of the cooling engine. Resting on the seat beside me was the application to the University of Virginia. I couldn't ignore it; the light colored paper gleamed up at me in the reflection of the sun. I picked it up and skimmed over the black lettering on the front page. They wanted to know my name, my age, where I was from, whether I was a man or a woman; they wanted to know what I wanted to study.

I tossed the application down, and wiped the back of my hand across my forehead. I forced myself to breathe deeply, to unravel the winding knot tight in my upper chest. We can say many things as humans. Doing them is a whole other challenge on an entirely different level. Leaving for university had been my whole plan all along, hadn't it? That was why I was saving my wages; that was why I was living at the station. I didn't think it through. I was under the assumption and illusion that Forrest would always be here, and I could return to him. Like some kind of landmark. God, what was wrong with me? I couldn't do it. When it came down to it, I didn't think that I could walk away from him as easily as I thought I could.

The ground beneath me shifted with an unstable quake as I walked across the lot. I assumed I was walking. My legs tingled with motion, and when my surroundings came into focus, they were different from what they had been moments before. I couldn't recall the trek from one point to another, but somehow I got there. I climbed up the steps of the porch slowly, hand gripping the railing. In my other hand was the application, hanging heavily in my fingertips. I wanted to tear it apart. I wanted to burn it. I needed a pen to fill it out.

Inside, Forrest sat alone at a table. His cardigan sweater lay draped over the back of his chair, hat resting on the table. Steam rose from a mug of coffee held in his hand as he glared down at large book that lay open in front of him. He took a sip from the mug as he scratched something out with a stub of pencil, and looked up when I entered through the screen door with a creak and a slam. His unfaltering gaze asked me why I was back so soon.

"The Doctor let me take a personal day," I said, and he inclined his head, waiting for the rest of the explanation. I hadn't formed an explanation yet. It took an entire drive to plan those eight words. Words were the stuff of imagination now. I didn't know what I would say. I only know what I saw. I only know what I felt. I saw a man that had given himself to me, body and soul. I saw that corner of the world, that heaven on earth, our promise. I saw my life with him, a life of easy peace and simple pleasures, after the madness of this period. And I felt my whole world begin to crumble at the prospect of giving it up.

Forrest's gaze flicked down to the collection of paper pinched tightly between my fingers. He blinked slowly, and the grays shined up at me again. Another silent question. I couldn't remember how to breathe. How could I remember how to match words together to form coherent sentences? I wanted to climb into his lap, shove my face into the crook of his neck and beg him to find a way out of this. I wanted to take him by the hand, drag him out to the Coupe, drive, and never look back. "Edna," he finally said, the throaty grumble drifting up to my ears, and the words came flying back into my head. They soared past as my conscious struggled to grab for them, and the frustrating efforts brought tears to my eyes.

My senses stung and blurred, and I sniffed, dabbing my fingers in the corner of my eyes quickly to catch the tears before they could fall. Forrest sat up a little taller, waiting for me to speak, brow furrowing in perplexity. "Forrest," I said, and my voice didn't sound like my own. It sounded hollow, far away. I stepped forward, and Forrest leaned to push out the chair beside him. I collapsed into it, not sure if I continued to possess the strength to look at him. Instead my focus rested on a chip in the wood at the edge of the table. The application was still in my hands. I no longer wanted to touch it, and I'm sure it's clean color was now tainted with blotches of perspiration. I tossed it onto the table, and watched as Forrest's gaze followed it curiously. My throat constricted at the sight of him so close to me, and I could feel my face contorting against my will at the emotion rising from somewhere deep within.

"Forrest," I said his name again. The word formed so easily, slipped so fluidly from my mouth, like his name had become simply a muscle reflex at the very thought of him. I brought a shaking hand up to my eyes, shading them so he wouldn't see me shut them tight. "Something happened, Forrest." Something bad. A cruel, unutterable atrocity. My eyes leaked through their tight confines, and I brushed the wetness away. My nose was a plugged, running mess, so I exhaled deeply through my mouth, took my hand away from my eyes, and opened them to the world again.

Forrest sat stock straight, brow creased over wide eyes as he looked down at me. His hands had fallen into his lap, and his mouth was set in a firm, grim line. I didn't have to look to know that under the table, his hands would be balled into tight fists, and the thought produced a silent sob, a choke of my senses and everything blurred as I rocked to the side to turn away from him. We both hated for him to see me like this. I gasped, forcing enough air into my lungs to accommodate a single sentence, a quick message to relay so he could at least have some idea of what happened before composure and words and rationality gave out on me completely. "They ain't gonna let us be together."

* * *

_"I've learned in life that every day a man has to do things he doesn't want to do. You know it will be forgotten, but you know that you have done what was needed. There is no glamour. Heroes wreak havoc and die, but if you want to be there for your children as they grow up, you must stay alive - Forrest knows that." -_Tom Hardy.

To love someone so dearly, perhaps more than yourself, and to have that relationship be strained and broken by the fate of time, where there is not enough of it, can do irreversible damage to the spirit.

So I'm gonna go shove skeletons back in my closet now. Show this chapter (and me?) some love, if you enjoyed it.


	11. Unexpected Visits

**Dance With Me**

_-Romantic Nights by Kitchen Lights-_

_January 1932_

"Edie!" My door rattled with the force of fists pounding against it. I jumped at the sudden noise, tossing my book to the side and heaved myself to a standing position at the alarm present in the shouting voice. "God damn it Edna, open up!"

My concern quickly transformed into irritation as I approached the door. Only one person out there who wasn't afraid to talk to me like that, and it was Howard Bondurant. I don't think it even crossed my mind why he was at my door. Maybe he was lost. "What the hell has gotten in your head, Howard?" I shouted back at him as I unbolted the lock and yanked the door open. "I-!"

The words caught in my throat as Howard rushed past me, knocking me to the side as he hauled another man in with him. I watched in silence as he kicked out a chair at the small round table near the kitchenette, and threw the man into the chair. The man clutched his face in his hands, palms high on his forehead, fingers stained and dripping with deep crimson. He wore a brown cardigan. It was Forrest.

"What happened?" I asked, rushing forward and nudged Howard out of the way. I pulled the string to click on the light over the table, and then attempted to pry Forrest's fingers away from his face, but he was holding on tight.

"Som'bitch Walter," Howard growled, straightening with a huff. "Forrest fired him from the mill th'other day. Didn't take it so kindly. We's on a run, made a stop, he was there. Took a bottle to his head-"

"Why didn't you take him to the hospital?" I demanded, shooting a glare over my shoulder as I gripped and pulled at Forrest's bloodied fingers.

"We broke, Edie!" he shot back, throwing his arms out as he began to pace in place. One step to the side, turn, one step to the other. "Can't afford no hospital right now. I think there's some glass in there. Just pull it out, stitch him up. Fuckin' Walter…" I turned my attention back to him when I heard his boots stop thumping against the floorboards. "I got business to take care of," he said, dark eyes wide and burning. I didn't say a word, only looked away quickly, redirecting my focus to my hands grasping Forrest's forearms. Whatever business he was speaking of, I didn't think it had anything to do with liquor. He stomped on out my apartment, and called, "I'll be back for him later," as he slammed the door shut behind him.

As soon as we were alone, I tutted my tongue and rose to my feet. The vanity in my bedroom held a pair of tweezers and a small sewing kit. In the kitchen I grabbed a wooden spoon from a drawer and the leftover apple brandy from the jar Forrest had given me a couple weeks ago. I kept it in the cupboard underneath the sink, and hadn't touched it since. Who knew it'd come in handy so soon.

"Forrest, take your hands away from your face," I said softly as I pulled up a chair, angling it so I could get close to the right side of his head, where I presumed the gash was. He didn't move, and I began to wonder if maybe he'd fallen asleep like that. So I pinched his arm, and then slapped at his hands. "Damn it Forrest, quit bein' a baby." I pulled at his hands again, and they came away from his face, dropped into his lap as I tried to locate the gash amongst the bloody mess. Wasn't all that hard. A decent sized piece of green-colored glass protruded from a deep lodge in the far upper-right side of his forehead, just along his hairline.

"All right," I said, more to myself as I formed a plan. Stitchings weren't all that hard. Done them before. Albeit, I had much better supplies up at the hospital. But we'd make do with what I had here. I grabbed the jar of brandy off the table, spun the lid open, and shoved it in Forrest's face. "Drink this."

He grabbed the jar hastily, his bloody fingers smudging against the glass. I watch as he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and swallowed several large gulps that would make even Howard wince. "Not all of it, now!" I told him, pulling the jar away from him. Amber liquid dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it away with a grimace. "I need some of that. Don't move."

I could hear him clear his throat as I hurried back over to the couch, leaning over the back to reach the pack of cigarettes on the side table. I snatched them up, and the book of matches beside them, reaching inside the pack as I returned to Forrest's side. It was hard to look him in the face. I only focused on one part at a time. Whatever part I was working with. If I stood back and really took him in, it would be a horrid sight. Wouldn't look like him at all, with all that blood ran down one side of his face. It was everywhere. His eye, nose, cheek, ear, mouth, smudged and blended into his skin from his hands. It looked like he was wearing some kind of war paint.

I shoved a cigarette between my lips, lit a match, and brought the flame to the tip, inhaling deeply. Smoke filled my airway as I shook the match out, tossing it onto the table as I took a seat once more. I exhaled slowly, and waited for the soft hum to calm my frazzled nerves before I thought about threading a needle. Forrest's breaths were jagged beside me, as though he was trying to keep them steady, but it was a lot harder task than he would've expected. I bet it hurt, having glass stuck in his head. But worse has happened to him, so I didn't feel guilty about taking my time.

Forrest took the cigarette when I offered it to him, and I turned to the sewing kit, choosing a black thread and an appropriate size of needle. My fingers shook a little, and I took a deep breath to steady them, biting my tongue in concentration as I worked to slide thread through the eye of the needle. I stretched the tiny string through to a decent length, tied the ends, and tore away the excess.

I breathed quiet words of affirmation that I could do this, so quiet only I could hear, and turned back to Forrest. He was angled away from me in the chair, but watched with a steady downturned gaze every move I made. I think he knew what was coming, and I don't think he was looking forward to it all that much.

I huffed out a breath and stood, grabbing for the brandy. "Close your eyes," I told him, and didn't move until he obeyed me. I gently touched the skin surrounding his wound. The amber liquid sloshed out over the gash, running down his face and dripped onto his sweater. Forrest jerked away from the sting with a straggled groan, and I brushed my free hand over his hair, cradling his head as I reached for the spoon.

When I handed the utensil to him, he automatically stuck the wood between his teeth, biting hard in preparation for what was to come. I steadied his head with both of my hands and tilted it upward into the light. The brandy had washed some of the blood away, and it was easy to see that the glass remained intact and unbroken, just one wide piece to pull out and a quick, clean line to sew up. My eyes moved to the table, where I located the tweezers and picked them up, shifting them in my fingers. I hesitated over the wound and pretended the Doctor was behind me, looking over my shoulder and speaking words of praise and encouragement. "All right," I told Forrest, running my hand over his hair one more time in what I hoped was a soothing gesture. "Hold still."

I took pride in how swiftly I moved. In one clean motion, I'd dug the tip of the tweezers into the wound, gripped the shard of glass and tugged, pulling it right out of his head. Except I forgot how nasty head wounds were, and how much they could bleed, so with the shard came a new stream of blood and I cursed, covering the wound with the sleeve of my sweater. Forrest made the strangest sound, something between a strangled growl and a moan, and I felt his arm swing around the back of my thighs and pull me into him as he stamped his foot on the ground.

That was my fault. Should've given him something to hang onto, so I didn't say anything about it. Just steadied myself and kept my shirt sleeve pressed tightly to the abrasion. "Halfway done," I murmured, listening to the rhythmic hiss as he breathed through his teeth. He held onto me tightly and I let him. Didn't need much space anyway, had to keep close to his head. I leaned away and moved my hand away from his wound. The dark blue fabric of my sweater was stained, and if I couldn't get the blood out, it wouldn't be a tragic loss. Forrest's fingers gripped into the side of my thigh when I poured more brandy onto the wound, and he flinched but remained silent this time.

The needle was so small in my fingers compared to the other tools I'd been using. I fumbled to grasp it at a comfortable angle and pulled at the length of the thread to straighten it out. "You know this don't hurt all that bad," I said to Forrest as I pinched the tight skin on either side of the gash. "Just sit still."

Threading skin together was almost like pulling a needle through a thick material. Like corduroy or denim. Except skin bled. But it closed easily, wanting to heal itself, so it only took maybe five or six sutures to seal Forrest up. I tied off the end and snipped off the excess with the small scissors from the sewing kit.

When I was all done, I leaned back and tilted Forrest's face up towards me to get a look at the job I'd done. Now that I knew he was and would be okay, I couldn't help but laugh a little at the sight that greeted me. "You're a mess," I said, taking the wooden spoon from his hand.

In the kitchenette there was a dishtowel resting on the counter. I wetted it under the faucet and returned to Forrest's side, grasping his chin, and began to wipe the blood away from his face. The metallic scent of blood and water began to fill the air between us, but I ignored it and kept my concentration on cleaning him up. As the wet cloth ran over his neck and cheek, he turned into my touch. I wondered if he meant to, or it was just a natural reaction, and I bit my tongue to suppress a smile when he closed his eyes.

But like the man-child he was, the closer I got to his sore, the farther he moved away from me and the deeper his scowl grew. "You stop that," I chided, reaching down to wipe away a smudge of blood left in the corner of his eye before returning to the area around the wound. I held his head in place, fingers roughly grasping the back of his neck and base of his skull. He let out a huff that had me rolling my eyes.

"How in the hell did you even let him break a bottle over your head?" I mused as I dropped back into my chair. I flipped the towel to a cleaner side before beginning on his hands. The middle knuckle on his right hand was split, but it wasn't anything too nasty. It'd heal up fine on its own.

"Wasn't looking," he said. The gravel in his voice told me he was in more pain than he'd ever let on, and I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt at my caretaking. I should've been gentler. I thought I saw some Band-Aids in my sewing kit, so I fingered through the small container again until I found the thin wrappings.

"You should invest in these," I said, as I held a couple of them up. "They do wonders." His eyes narrowed a little, and I peeled the packaging away, smoothing the strip over his stitches as tenderly as I could. I added another to cover the length of his gash. "Did Howard go to find that Walter man?" I asked after a stretch of silence. I twisted the cloth between his fingers.

"Yep," Forrest said.

"Is he gonna hurt him?"

"No." That answer was not the one I expected to hear, and it caught my attention.

"Why not?" I asked. Wasn't like I wished harm on the stranger, but retaliation was expected. Especially coming from a Bondurant. They didn't let these things go.

"Ain't his fight," he said, and I understood then. Howard was out to see where he could find that Walter man. His punishment would be coming, but it wouldn't be tonight, and it wouldn't be from Howard. I tried to imagine what Forrest might do, but really couldn't picture him putting the hurt on anyone. Howard, maybe. I'd seen him attack those agents all those months ago. Forrest always seemed to be the hurt, not the hurter.

A voice in my brain warned me not to underestimate him. People were scared of him for a reason.

When I returned from the bedroom after putting my things away, Forrest was lighting another cigarette. The jar of brandy was tucked between his thighs. Wouldn't be able to tell anything was ever wrong with him, except for the Band-Aids on his forehead and the blood staining the collar of his shirt and sweater. I silently congratulated myself on a job well-done.

As I sat down beside him, I wondered what to do next. He'd be here until Howard returned, and that could be any conceivable amount of time. I thought of offering something to drink, but he already had the brandy. Maybe something to eat, but I doubted he had any kind of appetite after the night's excitement. Ask him if he wanted to lay down, but the suggestion sounded too forward, even in my head.

When a puff of smoke crossed my vision, I realized Forrest was looking at me.

"What were you doin'?" he asked, and somehow I knew he meant before he arrived. Forrest liked to ask me vague questions, because of the long answers he knew he'd receive. Sometimes I stretched my answers intentionally, because I knew he liked it. Sometimes I couldn't help myself. Occasionally, I'd be short with him just to make him irritated. He'd pry a little for longer answers, and then give up. I'd laugh a little, then laugh harder when he realized I'd done it on purpose. I don't think Forrest would ever fully grasp the art of conversation, but it sure was fun to make him try.

"Reading," I said. "It's a book I've had for awhile, about this man and woman. They're awful people, Forrest. Just awful. They're bored and selfish and useless, and got no right being married – they're married by the way. It's strange reading it, 'cause they're everything I never want to be. They're privileged, but terrible with their money. They make awful decisions and then regret them for the rest of their lives. They hate the thought of growing old. Ain't nothing ever gonna please or go right for them. They're too caught up in themselves. It don't make no sense. City people are absolutely insane."

"Sounds like that could be anyone," Forrest said after a minute. "Ain't just city people."

"Take away the money, and I suppose…" I paused to consider the thought, but then shook my head. "Still, I won't ever be like that. I don't mind growing old. I'll make decisions I won't regret in the long-run, and I'll marry someone I love as much as I say I do. Then I won't ever have to be bored, or care about money, or wish for more. I could be happy because I _am _happy."

When I concluded my self-sorting, I looked up at my audience. Forrest sat still as a statue, but I could see his eyes flickering from side to side as he searched my face. When he finally moved, it was with a faint guttural sound from the back of his throat, and it was to inhale on his burning cigarette. He'd broken his gaze with me, and in the light I could see the reddened glow spreading in his ears.

Love and marriage and happiness probably weren't exactly ideal topics to speak of with Forrest Bondurant. But he'd asked what I doing, and that's just how the flow of conversation worked. I didn't plan on extending the topics beyond my own sorting of thoughts and opinions to his follow-up comment, but his sudden discomfort had taken me aback. Just a little. Forrest only reddened up like that when he was angry or embarrassed.

"Forrest."

"Hm."

"Coming here tonight. Was that Howard's idea, or yours?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

He pulled at the cigarette between his lips. He was postponing his answer. But then he tucked his chin a little, and with a slow blink his eyes were on me, lids narrowed only slightly, enough to drop his brow a fraction. The gray of his eyes were glazed and darkened by his answer. An answer he didn't have to voice, because he knew I already knew, too.

* * *

_"The course of your life is changing right in front of you, and you don't even see it..." -_ Forrest Bondurant, Lawless (2012).

Pay attention to the dates on the succession of these vignettes. They're right at the beginning of the chapter. This is the first of a few. I don't know whether I'll bunch them all together, one right after the other, or pepper them throughout, between continuations of where the story left off in chapter 10. Some artistic and creative feedback would be much appreciated for this small dilemma.

I've just recently re-watched What Dreams May Come, so I'm all hyped up on that soulmate stuff right now. Please disregard any unforgivable amount of fluff that may sneak themselves into future chapters without my permission. If you love it, hey cool, me too! If you hate it, I'm so sorry, it's a temporary high, and I'll work hard to tone it down!

All right, enough rabble. Let me know what you think about this one! And thank you all so much for reading :) Your feedback keeps this story alive, and awesome.


	12. Doing Business

**Dance With Me**

_-A Consideration of the History of Sex, Also an Aphrodesiac-_

_February 1932_

Howard and I shared a hard stare over the table we sat at. In the quiet, I could hear the distant sounds of Forrest's voice through the open back door, and the delicate clink of glass. He was hauling crates out of the stone shed out back, directing Jack where to go and what to do with them. One crate dropped a little hard, resounding in a shrill clash as the jars rocked together, followed by a shout of warning from Forrest. It drew my attention to the door and out into the black of the night. The high and frenzied tone of Jack's apologies subsided, and they were stacking crates once more.

When I turned back to Howard, I saw he continued to watch me steadily through narrowed eyes. "Don't look at me like that," I said as I turned over a page of the book in front of me, wrapping my sweater tighter around my frame. I wish we'd sat at the table in front of the furnace, but that was already occupied by customers. I guess the table catching the draft of the open door was second best.

"Ain't lookin' at nothin'," he said, bringing an open jar to his lips for a quick drink. With a grimace, he slammed it back down onto the table. His face was flushed and beads of sweat gathered and dripped down the side of his face. I began to wonder how much he'd drank so far tonight. "Why are you here?"

"Forrest brought me here," I said softly, folding my hands in my lap. It was a question I was beginning to ask myself. If I'd have known the Bondurants were doing business tonight, I would've stayed home. I'd never seen such a thing before, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to.

"Are you fuckin' my brother?"

It must've been the look in his eye when he asked it that had me at such a loss as whether to slap him or collapse into laughter. His dark eyes burned in accusation, but they were wide with wonder. As though he may have already known the answer, but it was just too much to ever consider, like radio broadcasting, or the earth rotating on its axis. Things most of us have just accepted for what they were, without ever stopping to figure out the how or why. It seemed to be dawning on Howard that he saw me so often for a reason.

I think we mirrored expressions. At least it felt like it; I don't really know what my face looked like at that moment. I probably should've been angry or offended with his breaching boundaries in an outrageously crude manner without a second thought. But I think I'd already learned that you had to have a thick skin around Howard, and couldn't put too much emphasis on the things he said. Wasn't any filter in that brain of his, so we had to filter for him.

But that didn't stop my shock. "The hell is wrong with you, Howard?" I hissed, searching for a foot to stomp on underneath the table. "That ain't none of your goddamn business!"

"Sure it is – damn it Edna, ow!" Howard angled out of the reach of my foot. "I got a right to know!"

"Shut your damn mouth, Howard!" I wanted to hit him. Oh, I wished I could hit him. I looked over my shoulder at the card players by the furnace, but they were immersed in their game. It was safe to throw a fist over the table so I did, but the oldest Bondurant swiped it away with a snort. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothin's wrong with me, I's just askin' – hey!" Howard caught my wrist when I flung my fist at his face, and when I attempted to pull away from him, he tightened his grasp. "He's _my _brother."

"Then show him some respect!"

Howard's awe had quickly transitioned from annoyance into amusement. He gave a short laugh, a wry smile stretched across his lips as he eyed my burning cheeks. "Naw…" he said quietly, lids narrowing to mere slits. "Naw, I don't think so. Not yet at least."

"Son of a bitch." I ripped my arm from his grasp, but knew I was free only because he released me as I fell back into my chair, shooting him what I hoped was a wicked glare. Howard only chuckled, and grabbed his jar for another drink.

"S'goin' on?"

Neither of us had heard Forrest come in through the back door. He moved out of the shadows and into the light, hat low over his eyes as they swung between me and Howard, wide shoulders swaying with each step he took. The intensity of his shifting stare had me averting my gaze from both brothers, feeling like I'd done something wrong. "Nothing," I said.

Forrest stopped walking about a pace away from the table. I could feel his eyes on me for a long while, but eventually he turned his attention to Howard. "We got them new'uns from Roanoke comin' in," he said. "The cousins. Stay close."

"Always do," Howard said. The only response to that was a heavy silence and a hard stare from Forrest. The way the oldest brother shifted in his seat made me think he almost regretted his choice words.

Forrest's eyes flickered upward at the sound of a low rumble, and I followed his gaze in time to see the glare of headlights flash through the windows. "Edna, why don't you make some coffee," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweater as he stepped around my chair. It wasn't a suggestion. I slid out of my chair and hurried behind the counter as he walked over to wait by the door.

I peeked out the window over the sink as I searched for the coffee pot. Cars were slowly beginning to line up around the lot, shadows of men stepping outside to greet each other in low tones. The orange tips of lit cigarettes burned bright in the darkness. I was curious, but I think I was just a little scared too, if my shaking muscles were any indication. I didn't know what to expect. What if something went wrong? If there was a fight, or a shooting, or someone died. How would they explain that to the law? What if they got caught?

But I couldn't forget how a couple of the deputies cozied up to Forrest's bedside on more than one occasion after he was shot. And not one of these men seemed to be the least bit worried about the possibility of getting caught. That had to mean something.

Coffee was brewing when Howard slid into a stool in front of the grill. Several men had filtered into the station, shaking hands and standing by the furnace to warm up while…well I assumed they were waiting for more men to arrive. Regardless, they look prepared to leave at any second, coats kept buttoned up and hats shoved on their heads. Some of the men's suits were nicer than others. I wondered if there was some sort of ranking, a classification of importance in this kind of trade, and if the Bondurant brothers had a higher standing since so many buyers and sellers navigated here to do their business.

I could feel the eyes of some of the men on me, though I tried to ignore it. I brushed it off as mild curiosity; anyone would have it. Maybe they were expecting to see someone else; maybe they weren't expecting a woman to be there at all. Even though not one of them approached me, their lingering stares and quiet conversations had me moving to sit on the other side of Howard and try to hide from their line of sight. Howard spotted and solved my intentions, stopping me with a shake of his head. "Forrest gon' want you to stay behind the counter," he said. His tone insinuated the reason why.

I poured Howard a cup of coffee, and one for myself, and we silently sipped at them as we watched the bootleggers converse. Well I watched. Howard kept his eyes on the wood of the counter for the most part, his head at the slightest tilt and I'm sure he was listening to every little sound around him. Forrest walked in from outside, stopping in the doorway to survey the room. After the pause, his head turned to the right, towards the men near the furnace, and his body followed. He was greeted with smiles and exclamatory welcomes by some, sharp nods by others. He didn't seem to return a gesture to any of them; just stopped walking and a small group would huddle around him for a moment. The men would then disperse, most heading for the door, and Forrest would take another step to form another small group.

Outside, the dull thud of stacking crates and the shouts of men as they directed orders could be heard. Several motors roared to life, doors slammed shut, and rubber skidded over dirt and gravel as bootleggers began to haul their cargo out of the lot. The headlights of the vehicles flashed over the ground and between the trees as they angled back towards the road.

"Howard." The sound of Forrest's voice drew my attention away from the window. He stood in front of a boy that couldn't have been much older than Jack, with a wild tuft of dark hair and a dirty face, but it looked like he wore his Sunday suit for this particular occasion. Forrest's head was lowered and his eyes were on a clump of bills clutched in his hands, but he wasn't sorting through them or counting. I heard Howard sigh behind me, then the scrape of the barstool across the floorboards, and the boy took a step back, eyes growing comically wide. "No, no," he said, with the wavering octaves of a younger man, shaking his head as Howard stepped into my line of sight and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.

My mind went blank as I watched Howard drag the boy forward, swing him around, and force his face down into the counter. The boy cried out, a muffled sound as his cheek pressed hard into the wood, and he lifted his hands by his head in surrender. Forrest stepped forward, shuffling the bills in his hands into a neat stack as Howard moved his hands around the boy's body, searching through every pocket, crease, and fold he could find.

"Nothin'," he said, coming out of a crouching position. The boy tried to stand straight, but Howard caught him by the back of the neck and forced him back down.

Forrest gave a small nod, and bent slightly, resting his elbow on the counter as he moved closer to the boy's face. "This ain't enough," he said, holding up the creased fold of bills.

The boy's breath came in shaky huffs as he struggled against Howard's hold. "We was told-"

"You were told wrong." Forrest released a small sigh and quickly glanced up at Howard. "I make my rates very clear, so nothin' like this don't happen."

"Two for the rotgut, four for the whiskey, that's what we was told!"

"That's a load o' shit," Howard growled, tightening his grip on the boy's neck.

Forrest's expression could've been mistaken for disappointment. "Son, we been in the business a lot longer than you. Everyone tryin' to buy for cheaper than they gon' sell. And if you wanna do that, you gotta learn to negotiate. Don't just think we ain't gonna notice."

I almost began to feel bad for the boy and his foolish mistake. His eyes were wide and shining, his mouth agape, words strangling in his throat. He looked fit to cry. "Sorry," he whimpered. "I'm sorry."

Forrest stared down at the boy for a long while. He shifted his gaze to Howard for a fraction of a second, and nodded once. Howard released the boy with a hard shove, and took a step back. He winced, hesitating, and then slowly raised himself off the counter, but he kept his head hung and his eyes to the ground. "I'm gonna keep this," Forrest tucked the fold of bills in the front pocked of his shirt. "Go on out there and tell your cousin to unload. Do your trade, then get the hell out of my lot."

The boy nodded hastily. His expression collapsed when Forrest said he'd be taking his money, but he didn't object to it. He was smart for it. He hurried around Forrest, eager to get away and out the door, and Howard followed close behind. Forrest watched the two men pass him, and lingered only to peek over at me. I was glued to where I stood, silently thanking the Lord that they didn't hurt that poor boy. He had to be the new'un from Roanoke that Forrest had mentioned. No one from Franklin would try to dupe a Bondurant like that. At least not anyone with half a brain. Kid should get out of the business now while he had the chance.

Forrest turned away, and headed outside.

"Forrest, look at this." I smiled to myself as I moved my feet off his lap, shifting them underneath me as I crawled to Forrest's side of the sofa. I shoved the book in my hands in front of his face, pointing down to a picture on the left side of the pages.

We probably should've been asleep. I probably should've gone home. After the bootleggers left the station, Forrest was the only one to return inside. He locked up, and headed to his office for a good hour or so. When I brought him a cup of coffee, I saw a stack of bills lying in front of a log book. He was hunched over that book, scratching numbers into it with a stub of pencil as he thumbed through the bills. He met me upstairs not too long after that. The coffee in our systems promised we'd see the sunrise.

The Doctor had given me one of his old textbooks from university to look through. He said it was from an art history course, and he thought I'd enjoy it. He was right. Some of the art dated all the way back to the times of Ancient Greece. Underneath most pictures was a description of the piece of art, and the meaning behind it, if they knew. I was in the 18th century pieces now, and some of them just left me breathless with how beautiful they were. I had no idea how someone could dream up such an image, and then be able to translate that on canvas, or into marble or stone.

Forrest took the book from my hands and brought it away from his face. "What is it?" he asked, brow creased as he assessed what I was pointing to.

"It's a painting," I said. "Isn't it pretty? It's called The Swing, by _Jean-Honoré Fragonard," _I attempted my best accent, trying to remember how some people did back home, and it drew a look from Forrest.

"What did you just say?" he asked.

"It's French," I said with a small laugh. "Kinda. But look –," I pointed to a figure tucked away among a shade of shrubbery underneath the swinging woman. "The woman on the swing? That's her lover. See how she's kicking her leg up like that? She's letting him see under her skirts. And that man right there -," I put my fingertip near another figure to the right, seated on what looked to be a bench next to the trunk of a tree. He held on to two ropes that pulled at the swing. "That's her husband."

"How you know that?"

"Says right underneath it. Kinda funny, you think? Scandalous behavior wasn't anything new, even back then. The world was just as crazy then as it is now. But they make it look so pretty." I sighed, resting my head on Forrest's shoulder as I looked down at the picture. "I bet her dress is white in real life. It looks like it would be. Maybe pink. I wish I could see it, and all the colors."

The husband in the picture seemed to be an afterthought. He was in the shadows and hard to see for a reason. We were supposed to be looking at the woman and her lover. The flirtatious look in her eye as she kicked her foot out, the longing in his. He reached for her, the fingers of his other hand straining in desperation for her touch. There was a passion, a desire, and an obvious teasing about the whole scene, yet a lightness to it that made it all seem appropriate. It felt okay to step into their world, outsiders looking in at such a private spectacle. We root for them, and their chance to be together. Lust and love were as much a part of history as anything else. When it is so beautiful and so undeniable, how could it be wrong? It should be something to embrace, shouldn't it?

I glanced up at Forrest. He stared down at the pages, eyes roaming over the images and words. His brow was furrowed. He needed a shave. His lips pursed as he read silently, and as he turned a page I bent low and kissed him hard.

He wasn't expecting that, and I took a little pleasure in catching him off guard. But he regained his bearings, inhaling deeply as he pulled me into his lap. I heard the textbook fall with a thump onto the floor as I shifted a knee to the other side of his legs. What I could only describe as desire pulsed through my lower belly, forcing me to tear my lips away from his at the dizzying sensation. I grasped his shoulders and opened my eyes, trying my hardest not to move against him despite what my body felt like it wanted to do. He stared up at me, eyes wide and shining with a rare anticipation. They were so bright at that moment; I'd never seen so many specks of blue in the gray before. He was waiting for me to move, to act, to make the decision. He was trying his hardest to be patient.

I didn't know what to do. What did I want?

His hands were warm and unmoving against my hips. I wished they'd move. I wished I could feel that warmth all around me, on me, inside me. My _God_, what was I thinking? What did I want? People did this all the time. It was natural; it made the world go round. Howard made it seem like it was nothing. But it was up to me. I knew Forrest would wait for my decision all night, right there underneath me if he had to. If I decided against it, he wouldn't think or say anything of it. He was a good, decent man in that sense. He was a gentleman. What did I _want? _

I shifted a little, sitting back on his lap as I watched him. That small move alone had him tightening his hold on me, and the quietest moan caught in his throat. He swallowed hard with a slow blink, and I slid my hands up his shoulders to grasp the back of his neck. So warm. So safe. Gentle. Patient. So unlike his public perception. I wondered how many others have been able to see this side of him. What did I want?

I wanted him. All of him. Always.

* * *

_"Forrest wanted to stay light on her body, to hold her softly like you might hold a bird in your hands, and on his chest he could feel the warm, thrilling beating of her heart." _The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 108.

I think I've been watching too much Boardwalk Empire. That's all I have to say about that.

I advise you to look up the painting in this chapter, if you don't already know it. It's breathtaking. Probably my fifth most favorite work of art! _The Swing_ by Jean-Honore Fragonard, Oil on Canvas 1766, The Wallace Collection, London.

This early (ish) update is my thank you for all the kind words I've been recieving. You have no idea how much it means to me. Your words and your feedback and support for this story constantly and continuously make my day and keep my passion for writing alive. Also, I swooned a little after TC Stark promoted my story in her Lawless fic. Huge, incredible honor. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! If you haven't read any of TC Stark's work, go check it out! Highly recommended.

So, I'd like to make the next chapter from Forrest's point of view. But I don't know if that would disrupt the flow of the story or not. Let me know what you think about that possibility, so I can get to writing it! One way or another. Love you all, thanks for loving this story!


	13. Pure Encouragement

**Dance With Me**

_-There's a Word for This Feeling-_

_April 1932_

He could see her through the screen. Tiny little thing, all curled up in the rubber, fingers lightly grasping the chains on either side of her. Bare feet reached for the ground, toes stretching out to anchor in the patchy grass and weeds, propelling her with enough force to spin in slow circles. The chains would intertwine, wrapping around themselves over and over until she wasn't strong enough to push anymore. Then she'd lift her feet and spin until the chains straightened.

He built that swing for her. She asked him to. It was pretty simple, just strung up a spare tire with some old chains along a hanging branch in the cluster of trees out back. It'd been a real pain in the ass scouting out a branch strong enough to support the weight of the swing, even in winter. But there was a crooked old oak with a limb high and thick enough to get the job done. He was going to use just a board of wood for the seat at first. But then he remembered he had that old tire resting under a workbench in the auto repair shed, and he thought she'd find that more comfortable. She didn't use it much at first. But now that the weather was getting nicer, if she wasn't upstairs or downstairs, she was out on that swing.

She didn't put her hair up today. It fell over her shoulder in waves from yesterday's tight wrap and framed one side of her face as she looked down at her feet. Her dress was a light shade of yellow. It made her skin glow in a way that caught his attention the second she climbed down the stairs this morning.

She was usually talkative in the morning, but not today. He'd have breakfast ready, but wouldn't eat until she woke up. Sometimes she'd wake up late after a long night, and he'd have to reheat the toast. But she didn't mind her bacon cold. Neither did he. They'd sit down at the table together, and she'd take her coffee in large gulps even though it was usually burning hot. It never fazed her though; she liked her coffee like Howard liked liquor. Any which way she could get it. She'd tell him about her dreams the night before, if there were any she could remember. Tell him about something new she learned from Dr. Andrews. Always going off about different painters and sculptures, using words like Rococo, and realism, and grandeur, and asymmetrical designs. He still didn't know what any of it meant, but she was so happy talking about it. Her thoughts would move too fast for her mouth to catch up, and she'd stutter trying to find the right words, laughing at herself for being so foolishly passionate. "It's just amazing, Forrest," she'd say, "You have to see it." He'd never appreciate it like she did, but it didn't matter. If it was something she thought worth mentioning, it was something worth seeing.

She'd ask him what he was doing, though the answer was always the same. Checking the books. Re-checking them. Inventory. Budgeting. Calculating sales. Always.

But that didn't happen today. She came down late, ate light, finished off a cup of coffee, and then went outside. There'd been a run last night. A real quick one; cars were in and out of there in under ten minutes. But one fella owed a debt to another, and there was a mess to clean up after they were able to pull the two men apart and drag them outside to deal with the conflict properly. He'd had every intention to clean the mess up himself after he locked up the station, but when he returned inside, Edna was on her hands and knees, bowl of filthy water beside her as she mopped up the blood with a soaking towel.

He was sure she scrubbed and scrubbed at that floor until it discolored the boards. He let her though; he had no right to say she shouldn't. He picked up the splintered pieces of a broken chair, and swept up all the glass. Afterwards he poured her a generous helping of brandy, and then lay with her in her bed until she fell asleep before he went down to update the books.

He had a hunch that she wasn't herself today because of what happened last night. She was slow at adjusting to the way things were around here. It was strange to watch her, and try to imagine the place she came from before. Everyone was used to this way of living. Everyone he knew. Even the city folk. It was just how the world was. But violent outbursts never failed to catch her off guard. She hated the sound of a firing gun. She refused to be witness to a transaction. Didn't even like to watch them load the truck before a run. He knew the sound of a scuffle would've peaked her concern last night. She would've snuck downstairs and seen the wreckage. And even if she left everything else, she would've felt the unrelenting need to clean up the blood. Blood stained. It seeped like oil into anything it could, and latched on with a stubborn hold. If she didn't tend to that specific mess in a timely manner, then it would've left a mark on the floor. No one wanted the reminder of what happened there.

He knew that was why she'd done it. He knew it because she'd done it before, with the white dress she'd worn the day they drove to the coast. It took him awhile to understand why he'd found her scrubbing away at that dress in the sink, when there hadn't been anything wrong with it. That day had affected her more than she'd ever admit. Something told him that before that day, she'd never had her life threatened. Never been unwillingly touched or grabbed at. Never seen a man exact punishment on another man for his dire mistakes. He'd like to take a trip to her hometown someday. He really couldn't imagine a place like it existing. But it must've existed, if it was producing creatures like Edna.

She never did end up getting the stains out of her dress. The stains only she saw, and she ended up throwing that dress in the furnace. It was a shame, but she did what she had to do, and things were all right after that. It was touch and go for a few days, but then she started talking about replacing his old second-hand makeshifts upstairs with the furniture in her apartment, and he knew she'd be okay. They'd be okay.

That was the difference between Edna and Maggie. One of them, at least.

He didn't like to think about Maggie too much, because then he'd get to feeling bad, and it wasn't no use being like that. He knew deep down that it would've been a miracle if Maggie truly stayed; stuck around in Franklin and spent the rest of her days with him. But Maggie was hardened by life and silenced by experience, and that gave her the luxury of the ability to run from her past and coinciding torment. It never cost her much more than dull heartache and an uncomfortable goodbye to uproot her life and try it differently somewhere new. Maggie was looking for something, something in particular, and he didn't think that she could've ever found it in him, or in Franklin.

She tried, though. She tried really hard to stay, and he had to give that to her. He was surprised he'd been able to convince her at all, claiming he could keep her safe, even though he was lying in a hospital bed with sutures across his throat, all covered in a swath of bandages at the time. She'd saved him, even after the abuse inflicted on her. She had a strength, a poise, and a dignity unlike any woman he'd ever met. He'd always owe his life to her. So he didn't do anything to hold her back when she finally decided to go.

If he had stopped to take a good hard look, he could've seen it coming. It was in the quietness around the station. In the way they slept in separate beds at night. She tried hard to hide the memory of that night away. But sometimes he could see it in her face. When she smiled, it faltered. Couldn't ever look anyone in the eye. Sometimes he'd catch her staring at some particular part of the room like it held a certain disturbing meaning to her. She'd remove herself from her thoughts eventually and lean against the grill, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, even if there was already another one burning between her fingertips.

When she did finally decide to leave, it was early one morning. She stepped hesitantly down the stairs because she knew he was already awake. She stopped at the bottom step, valise clutched tightly in her hand, he waited for her explanation even though something in his stomach sank a little when he saw that look in her eye. There wasn't any stopping her, even if he'd tried. She was already gone. "I'm going to go now," she said, and she spoke low, trying to hide the quiver in her voice. She did go. He watched her walk right out through the screen door, disappearing until he heard the engine of her Ford turn over and roar to life. Then she was gone.

It scared him a little to think Edna might do the same. He hated admitting that fear to himself, but he didn't know what else to call it. Scared seemed to be the proper word. He liked having Edna around. He liked the noise. The sound of her voice. She could get so loud sometimes, especially when his brothers were around. But he didn't mind. Her laughter would echo throughout the station, or sometimes her angry warnings if Howard was antagonizing her, and he'd find himself pausing to just listen. Didn't matter what she was saying. Didn't matter what she was laughing about. Her voice filled this place with something it'd always been missing. He never knew what that something missing was, but now he did. It was her voice.

Part of him wished she'd leave. Get out before this place and this life could ruin her. Something bad was bound to happen; it always did. Nothing ever stayed right for too long, and he'd be damned if she was hurt or put in danger in any way he could've prevented. She was such a delicate little thing, no matter how tough she tried to act. And she was under his care. He liked to keep track of her whereabouts. He knew her schedule by heart. He knew how long it took her to fall asleep at night. Ten minutes with brandy, twenty without. He knew when he heard the first creaks of footsteps across the ceiling in the morning it would be exactly seventeen minutes until he saw her come down the stairs. He knew she returned from the hospital at eleven fifteen every night of the work week, and he knew he'd have her until one thirty most nights, which was usually about the time she started to doze.

Most of him wished she'd stay. He knew she held intentions to go off to school. There was a deeply selfish part of him that he kept tied down and gagged – that part of him wanted to see those plans fall short. He wanted to find out what she was looking for, and find a way to give that to her. Women were confusing creatures; he didn't always understand what they wanted. Sometimes he did, but most of the time he just made them mad. Maggie was always mad at him. All fire and ice until he did something else that magically fixed the problem. It wasn't pleasant, and it was puzzling as all hell, but in all his time contemplating it, he had come across one thing that stood out to him. One thing he may be able to offer one day.

Maggie didn't mind the business. Illegal activity didn't faze her; she'd been around it her whole life. It was the attempts on his life that had really gotten to her. She didn't believe for a second the rumors surrounding his family name. She couldn't ever stand seeing him hurt, and she'd been angry with him more than once, accusing him of seeking out danger. She despised the thought that someday he really was going to die, and it would be long before her, and she'd have to live with that loneliness. God forbid she actually be there when he did die. Edna appeared to be the opposite. She approached his accidents like a chore and an annoyance, and dealt with them accordingly. She questioned his intelligence, but she never appeared to question his ability to survive. The business was the part that she didn't like. She didn't like that they had to make their money illegally. She didn't like the violence that was included.

The fate of his life was out of his hands. It was as simple as that; he'd die when and how he was supposed to. Even though he'd do his damndest to have a say in it, he knew that ultimately it wasn't up to him. The business, however, he did have a say in that. Liquor was a means of getting by while the economy plummeted. Always had been. He'd promised himself a long time ago that he'd get out once things turned around. Couldn't say the same for his brothers, but that was his plan. Save enough to invest in something else. Or expand. The sawmill wasn't doing all that well, but he figured that'd change once the economy started looking up. Giving up the business for himself was an easy dream. Giving up the business for Edna was pure encouragement.

His fingers twitched at his side as he warred with himself about whether or not to go out there. She'd stopped spinning in the swing, bringing her feet up. Her arms wrapped around her legs and her cheek rested on a knee. He needed to finish the books. Then he had to go check the gasoline tank. He needed to order piping and tile for a shower stall. Wasn't room for a tub like she wanted, but she was okay with a stall, as long as they looked into replacing the water heater. She said she'd help pay for the renovations. She was crazy.

It was Sunday. He wasn't expecting anyone today. Customers, if there were any, would be slow to rise. Howard never came round on Sundays after a run, and Jack would be with Bertha all day after church. He'd show up later in the evening for supper before returning to the farmhouse, though. Everett celebrated the Sabbath the old-fashioned way, and he respected that.

He sighed to himself, tearing his eyes away from her and twisting his body to look around. This back room could use a good sweep, too. But he'd have all day to do that, and all night if he needed it. He withdrew a hand from his pocket and pushed at the screen door. It opened with a creak, drawing her attention. She looked up and over toward the back door, saw him standing there. She considered him for a moment, eyes at a squint in the slight distance, but he could see the smile beginning to stretch at her lips.

"Whatcha doin'?" she called out to him. He shrugged.

"Nothin'," he said.

"Come push me then."

Something jerked inside him, leaving him breathless under an unbearable lightness. His stomach twisted and his heart pulsed, and it was painful in a sense of the word. Wasn't like being kicked or shot, but there was real pain. He welcomed the warmth it left in him as he eyed the creature waiting for him under that oak. He wanted her to stay. He'd build a university right in the center of Rocky Mount, if it meant she'd stay. Sweet Edna. She was giving him the chance to make her his. His. His woman. His mate. His second half. Her intentions were clear. Always had been. She wasn't afraid to wear her heart on her sleeve. He'd tell her that was dangerous, but he didn't want her to believe it. Not when she was offering that heart to him – an investment too good to pass up. No, it was his turn. Now it was his responsibility to make his intentions clear.

He stepped down onto the patchy grass, and she twisted to watch as he approached. He'd tell her that he wanted her to stay. That's how he would do it. He'd tell her that he didn't want her to leave Franklin; to leave him. That's what he'd tell her. Soon.

* * *

_"If I love, if I open up that part of me, then I will die." -Tom Hardy on Forrest's thoughts on love. _

_Consider that quote for Forrest's plausible reactions to his and Edna's predicament. All right. I apologize if you were expecting more...intimate content, in continuation of the previous chapter. If that's a popular idea, there may be a special insert in a future chapter. But this is the content that ate away at me until I agreed to write it all down. So here it is: all the things Forrest will never say out loud. What do you think?_

_By the way, if you've never seen Tom Hardy's performance in Stuart: A Life Backwards, stop what you're doing right now and go watch it. You can find the full movie on Youtube right now. Wonderful, beautiful, that's all I have to say. Thank you for reading, I look forward to your feedback!_


	14. A Home

**Dance With Me**

_-The Way of Grace-_

_May 1932_

He could feel her in his bones. Feel her in the air around him. The way she moved. The way she breathed. She was everywhere, warm and shining, sunlight dancing between the leaves of trees. The calm in the night. The wholeness in the world around him.

He was powerless to her. He knew that now. He probably always was. Whatever she wanted, it was hers. Whatever he could give her, she already had it. His mind, his heart, his home. His body. All hers. He was at her disposal, and he had no control over it.

_Edna_.

Howard said something funny, made her laugh. The sweet melody blurred the numbers on the page in front of him. Her lips spread across straight teeth in a striking smile. But she never just smiled with her mouth. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed, and it damn near brought him to his knees every time.

_How do you do that to me?_

She glanced over at him in her laughter, wondering if he caught the joke. He didn't. He wanted his brothers to leave. He wanted to close up the station early tonight. He wanted to be alone with her. With her grace and her delicacy. He found himself wanting it more often than not these days. Wanting to touch her; to be touched by her. Wishing to steal just one kiss in the backroom before tending to other matters.

He stuffed a chunk of cornbread into his mouth and skimmed over the numbers again. The same. They were always the same, and getting better. He heard of an area for sale out along Philpott Lake. She wanted a house by a lake. A big lake, with a sandy beach. It had to be sand. Rocks hurt her feet, and clay stained and stuck to everything. He planned on taking a drive out to look at it. He would stand at the water's edge and look all around him. If he could see her vision, he would buy that land. Then he'd start saving for lumber.

"What do you think, Forrest?"

He looked up at the sound of his name, navigating the three faces around him until one matched the voice of his baby brother. Jack had an eager expression, eyes flashing with excitement. "What?" he asked.

"Me asking Bertha to marry me," Jack said, unable to keep the stupid grin off his face.

He was not remotely expecting to ever be approached with such a question. He looked at Edna, and then he looked at Howard, but they found more interest in their plates as they waited for what he had to say. "Uhm." He dropped his pencil and picked up his fork. "You ask her daddy's permission yet?"

"Well, no," Jack said. "But that don't matter anyway. Ain't like he's gonna say yes."

"And you think she'll still say yes even if her daddy don't?" Edna asked. It was a good question. One he probably would've asked if no one else did. No one knew Bertha like Jack did. Girl never even met Edna yet. Jack made sure to keep his interest at arm's length from his family while he courted her, ever since she was present when Rakes raided those stills the previous year.

"Sure she will," Jack said, with a strong confidence that had been rapidly maturing in recent months. "She loves me."

He chanced a look over at Edna, and met her gaze. Her eyes softened in a private smile as they searched his face, crippling him in his fight to refrain from reaching for her. Not in front of his brothers. Not in front of anyone. Those moments were meant only for each other.

"So what d'you think? Think I should?"

He had a house for her. He had a decent income. Jack may have been young, but he was alive with love. He would be good to Bertha; faithful, true. They'd have babies. Sons who would grow and tend to the farm left neglected in their father's death. Daughters who would bring to life the home their mother and sisters had once worked so hard to make. That marriage bit was entirely up to the youngest Bondurant. But he would always approve of Jack building a respectable life for himself.

He voiced his consent in a low consonant formed in the back of his throat, and returned to counting numbers.

He knew it was time to retire upstairs when he felt her hand at the back of his head. A soft brush against his scalp that reminded him how stiff and sore he felt from sitting in that chair so long. They were alone again. Finally alone. He needed to get out of that chair and lock up. Blackwater Station was closed for the night.

His brothers left shortly after supper; Jack for the farm, Howard for the hills. Edna cleared the table and took her time washing the dirtied dishes. He remained in his seat, sipping whiskey as he calculated the estimated cost of lumber at its current price for a two-level house with a cellar. She didn't care for the cellar, but that was something he wanted.

Her fingers trailed impossibly lightly down his neck, and his eyes closed to the touch. His head began to sink forward, but she caught it, holding his face steady between fingers that folded over his chin and cheeks. She brushed a hand over his forehead to his hairline, smoothing out the short strands.

She pressed a warm kiss to his temple and he swallowed, releasing his hold on his pencil and let it roll across the table. He would probably never understand the how or why of this life he was slowly building. It almost didn't matter. Not when the who and what were so good. It couldn't be wrong. It wasn't.

The world was cruel and unforgiving. He learned from a young age that a person had to be cruel back. It all came down to survival. You had to fight, take charge, and instill fear in your neighbors and your enemies to survive. The day you submitted to them was the day you'd die. There wasn't any time to love. No time for forgiveness. No time to find the beauty in the world around him. Too dangerous to consider it.

Her lips brushed down his cheek, and he exhaled deeply, leaning into her touch.

He'd never forgive the world for the things it'd done to him, but she made him want to forget. Leave it all behind. Live alone somewhere, where it was safe to feel, to smile when he wanted to, and laugh when something was funny. It'd be nice to meet someone without the automatic assumption that they were there to kill him, and take his hard-earned money. It'd be nice to let his brothers take care of themselves for a while. It'd be nice to finally let himself be taken care of. And she was so good at it.

_Edna._

He opened his eyes and found her mouth, capturing it with his. He wondered if this was how his father felt when he first loved his mother. He didn't remember much, but he remembered that. His father doted on his wife. Appreciated every kind word and warm meal she placed in front of him. Honored her presence and respected her opinion. Gave her everything he could. When the flu took her, grief crippled him. She was his life, his power. Without her, the world came rushing up to him in a quick and awful way, knocked him six feet under.

He stood out of his chair and pulled her in close. She folded against him easy as a bed sheet, and he could feel her arms wrap around his back. He held her face as he kissed her again, gently as he could. He was always so scared of hurting her. Small little thing.

_Where did you come from?_

She pulled her face away from his and opened her eyes. They shifted up to his in a flash, and she smiled in a breath of laughter, like something was dawning on her for the first time. He wondered what it was, but the curiosity dissipated as she bunched up the shirt fabric at his back and slowly pulled the seams from their tight tuck in the brim of his pants. Her fingers slid around the circumference of his waist, working to pull the shirt free. Then she started on the buttons, one by one down the front of him as he breathed her in.

She wore her hair long today. He reached up and wove his fingers through a thick of strands near her scalp. It broke her concentration and she smiled, eyes fluttering closed as he pulled his fingers through to the ends. She hooked her hands under his suspenders, slid them over his shoulders and let them fall to his sides.

He had to tell her. He had to tell her he wanted her to stay. He couldn't stand her going off to school. What if she decided she didn't want to come back? How was he supposed to protect her from the ugliness of the world so far away? How could he build them a house if she wasn't there to make it a home? It made sense for her to stay. She loved him. He knew that.

Sweet Edna. He brought his hands back to her face, carefully cupping them around her structure as gently as he could. A ghost of a touch. She leaned into the palm of his left hand and kissed his wrist. Her fingers trailed up the length of his arms to his hands, and she grasped them, drew them away from her face. He watched in awe at the grace of it. Her skin soft as weathered velvet. Her movement choreographed by God. How did it come to be like this? When did he lose himself to this extraordinary being?

_ When did you first touch my heart?_

She threaded her fingers through his and drew their hands in close to her chest. There was a dull thump and she shrunk even further in her height. He looked down to see her kick off her other shoe. He swallowed and returned his gaze to her face, waiting for her direction. Waiting for him to tell her what to do, or waiting for her to free him and be guided by impulse.

She lowered his hands down to her sides and released her hold on them. He flattened his palms against her in question, and she smiled. He bent to kiss her as he gathered up the loose cotton of her skirt until he touched nylon. He felt around the fronts and backs of her thighs, releasing her stockings from their holds with ease of practice. He pinched the tight material of her girdle and pulled. It rolled down her skin in a slow progress until he could tug it loose, and when he did, he let it fall from her legs to the ground.

When she withdrew for a breath, she gathered up the back of her skirt and receded several steps until she felt the edge of the table. She slid onto its surface, and he stepped between her legs as they opened for him. He brought his lips to her chin, and then moved them to her neck. She worked at his belt, and the sweet sound of her laugh rolled between them.

"You ever scared we'll accidentally make a baby doin' this?" she asked, her voice light and full of air.

"No," he mumbled into the base of her neck.

"You want babies with me, Forrest?" she asked.

Course he did. Didn't she know this already? He wanted to make her his under God, too. But not until he was sure she'd stay. He'd build a big home like she wanted, and they'd fill it with a whole mess of kids. Many as she wanted, but enough so that even in the worst times, none of them would ever be alone. He would give those kids everything. He would be there to watch them grow into their own. He'd show his sons how to be men, and teach his daughters to respect themselves, and value their worth. But the best thing he could ever do for them, like his father did for his children, is love their mother. He would do that.

He leaned back just far enough to see her face. _Stay with me. _He looked at her mouth, her nose, her chin. _You are my life._ Her cheeks, her ears. _My future. _He looked at her eyes, shifting back and forth in anticipation of his answer. _You are my world. _She had to know that already. Didn't she? But she was waiting for him. So he said, "yeah."

* * *

_"How can somebody be so violent, yet at the same time be such a little boy? And so intrinsically innocent and naive, and have such a heart, but yet do something on this side which is so incredibly, horrifically horrible."_ -Tom Hardy on the paradoxes of Forrest Bondurant.

Next chapter, we return to where the story left off. Before the vignettes. So if you were wondering why you were suffocating in fluff the last couple chapters, that's why! It was necessary...

So, uhm...I'm playing around with ideas for an Eames story. It could be fun, since it's Inception and all! Just to flex my descriptive writing muscle a little, and work on research and character/plot development. It would be my own private (or public, I guess, since I'd publish it on here) writing workshop. But we'll see.

Sending my love and thoughts out to any East Coast readers affected by Sandy. I sincerely hope you and your loved ones are safe and were able to avoid the brunt of the storm. I love you all! Hopefully you are able to read this. If it's a while before you can, when you do, just know that I was thinking about you. Stay safe!


	15. Already Decided

**Dance With Me**

****_-The Way of Nature-_

It had started to rain. A heavy onset of clouds had crept over the mountains to the west and taken the county by surprise. A pleasant surprise, but if I really thought about it, it was also a nasty omen. The area was desperate for any kind of rain, even if it was just a quick drizzle. Farmers would be out in their fields, rejoicing in the blessing. The relief would be short. It was clear those clouds were just passing through on their way to the coast. But it was welcomed.

I sat curled up in the rocking chair on the porch, chin resting on my knee. The sky was dim and grey. I listened to the raindrops strike the roof, slide down, and watched as they dripped from the side, disappeared with the others in their fall to the ground. Everett found shelter from the unexpected downpour in the auto repair shed adjacent to the station. He'd pushed one half of the door open and stacked two overturn crates in the space. He perched himself on top of them and set to biding his time by reading his pocket bible.

Jack sat beside me, but not willingly. He shifted and tutted restlessly, annoyed that he'd been left behind. Forrest had assigned him the task before he left, to watch over the station. But we all knew that meant to watch over me even though I could've run the station by myself. The place never saw much business unless it was on a day of a scheduled run.

"Wonder what's taking 'em so long," Jack said as he folded forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Forrest had not left a happy man. Neither of us knew where he'd actually gone, but we could speculate when he'd asked Howard to accompany him. I never expected for him to take kindly to a federal officer's threats, and though I was surprised to see him decide to take a stand so quickly, I did nothing to stop him. Instead I chose to sit there, worrying myself sick until he returned. I prayed he'd be able to find a way out of this mess.

I didn't respond to Jack, but the same thought had been wracking my brain for the last hour. I hoped the length of his absence was a good thing. It could mean that they had sat down and were talking with the feds, trying to negotiate and find another way to cooperate. A way that wouldn't result in such a private and painful loss. But it could also mean that a conflict had ensued, and the brothers had been apprehended by the officers we assumed they'd gone searching for. And as it was Forrest and Howard out on the loose, death couldn't be ruled out as a feasible option either.

"Think we'll go to jail, Edie?" Jack sat back uneasily in his chair, and I turned my head to look over at him, watched as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket. "Bertha's gonna be so mad. She don't know what I – _we, _what we did down at the bridge that day. She won't marry a killer."

"You're no killer, Jack," I assured him. "Remember I'd seen what happened to y'all that day. You probably woulda been killed if you hadn't done the things you did. You're a good man. So are your brothers. And not one of you is going to jail." Not if I could help it.

He didn't seem all that reassured, but he nodded all the same.

I don't know how long we stayed out there. Long enough for the rain to pass. Long enough to greet a car stopping for gasoline. The air had cooled with the oncoming of the brief storm, but the deep glow of a late afternoon sun was beginning to peek under the overcast, warming the earth once again. It was so quiet. I couldn't bring myself to get out of that chair and find something to do, so I sat there, disappearing into my own head for a long while.

I cried a few times. When I felt my throat tighten, I'd turn away, let the tears come silently, sniff frequently. If Jack noticed, he didn't say anything and I was grateful for that. Truth is, I was realizing real quickly how much I didn't want to leave, and I was feeling awfully bitter that, out of all the souls in the world, it had to be me.

I had wanted to go off to school, but why? Because the Doctor said I should? I never really thought about that before he placed the idea in my head. Because he said this place was no home for me; because he said I was smart, and should strive for more. Said if I stuck with my passion for art, and got an education, I could work at a museum someday. Maybe even be a curator, after a whole lot of studying and travelling. It sounded wonderful because it was the Doctor saying it.

But what did I want? What did I _really _want? The answer came quickly now that there was a chance it'd be turning to dust right before my very eyes. I was getting a peek into my own soul, and what true aspirations lay there. I wanted peace in simplicity. I wanted to build the life I wish I could've built in Union Parish – an agrarian life, away from the chaos of a restless and unsatisfied society. Somewhere I could live slowly, and never forget to appreciate the little things; never forget to love everyone, always.

I wanted a family. I wanted a home. And I wanted it with Forrest. It was a lot like school, I suppose. It'd cost hundreds, thousands of dollars, and years of my life. Endless dedication, constant preparation. But I didn't need to go away to do that. I would be rewarded for my efforts daily; when I laid my children down to sleep at night, when I woke beside their father in the morning. I wouldn't have to compete because there was no competition in love. I wouldn't have to waste precious time in classrooms because life was satisfied in letting you to learn as you go.

It wasn't right and it wasn't fair to have my chance at that kind of life taken away from me. I wasn't asking for much.

Jack saw them coming before I did. His head shot up, alert like a hound dog and he stood when he recognized the vehicle heading down the road. When I looked, I recognized the old truck, too, could hear it bump and rattle as it drew closer. Jack took a few strides forward, pausing on the top step of the porch, and we watched as the TT rolled into the lot, coming to a halt in the empty space it occupied before leaving. Right between the Coupe and the Chevrolet.

The brothers were slow to get out of the truck. I heard a slam on the passenger side, then Howard's head peeked between the boards lining along the flatbed as he stepped around the vehicle. Forrest opened his door, climbed out, and slammed it shut behind him. He met Howard at the edge of the truck, and gave a small nod as he pocketed the keys.

They came back alive. No one was hurt. Nothing seemed out of sorts. That had to mean something.

"Jack," Howard barked from where he stood, and the youngest brother hurried down the steps. Howard met Jack halfway, and as Forrest began to walk up to the station, the two brothers headed towards Everett and the shed.

Forrest shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet as he clambered up the steps with heavy footfalls. When he reached the top step he glanced up at me from under the brim of his hat and jerked his head. I lowered my feet to the floor and pushed myself out of the chair as he took a few more steps to pull open the screen door. I passed him, and he followed me inside.

I stopped short, though. I couldn't wait to follow him to a room, or another seat, or allow him the chance to explain on his own time. I wanted to know now. "Did you work it out with them, Forrest?" I asked, watching as he removed his hat from his head and smoothed his hair out. "Are we gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," he said after a moment's consideration.

Relief rushed through me, icy mountain water in my veins. "Tell me what happened," I breathed, "What did they say?"

Forrest dropped his gaze, and slowly stepped over to drop his hat on to the counter. He hesitated, cleared his throat, and then raised his head as he turned to face me again. "Uhm. You're gon' accept the bureau's offer," he said. "And you're gonna go off to school."

I blinked a couple times, my head tilting as I let these words settle. But they wouldn't settle. They weren't supposed to. That wasn't an acceptable answer. "Why?" When he didn't answer right away, I took a step toward him. "Forrest, tell me why."

He cleared his throat again, clenched his fists at his side. "This, uhm – this trial is gonna get alotta men riled up. It's safer if you ain't around."

"So that's it, then? No way around it." He pressed his lips together, and gave a small grunt in reply. Something in me didn't want to acknowledge that he had given up so quickly, so easily. That the fight was over, and the end of us was on the horizon. I didn't understand, while the very thought of it suffocated me, how he appeared to possess the ability to simply let it be. It boiled my blood. "You know if I leave, I can't come back. They told you that, didn't they?" I almost didn't catch his stiff nod, and I was mad that I did.

Maybe I really thought he'd find a way out of it. He seemed to have a talent for it. He outsmarted death. Outsmarted law officials; found a way around taxes, around racketeering scandals, murder charges, and prison time. It scared me to my core to think I'd really have to leave him behind, but I think I was sure he'd go and fix it. He fixed everything. He always made it all right in the end. This time was no different; there had to be another way. I couldn't be the only thing in this world that legitimized his innocence.

But I guess I was. And I guess he couldn't make things all right this time, couldn't fix it, couldn't find a way around this. The truth shined on the situation in a whole new light. It wasn't bright with hope, either. It dimmed and flickered, like a lamp out of oil when I'm right in the middle writing a letter in the dead of night. My peace wasn't coming. Not anytime soon. Forrest wouldn't be building us a home by the lake. I wouldn't be having his children. And it looked like he'd already made peace with that.

I'd really be leaving. Letting go of everything I loved all over again.

"Edna –," Forrest began, but I held up my hand, and took a step back. For once, I didn't want to hear him say a word. At that moment, his voice was painfully unbearable.

"Don't talk to me," I said, and didn't flinch at the spitting austerity in my own voice. I tried to look at him, but found I couldn't raise my eyes to his face. So I turned away, shaking my head, already feeling my eyes begin to water as I swallowed the lump in my throat. My face contorted and I shut my eyes tight, but I forced myself to take a deep breath and walk. I thought about going upstairs, but being confined within four walls would drive me nuts. So I walked straight down the hall and out the back door, desiring comfort in the serenity of open space.

My tire swing would be wet, but I approached it anyway. I grasped the dripping chains, and eyed the layer of water shining on the rubber. God was punishing me for something. Or if it was His test for me that I had to overcome, then it was a cruel one. Or maybe He'd forgotten about me and left the devil to have his way. I didn't understand. My fate was decided by other men so quickly, without regards to what it'd do to me. Without a care as to how it'd turn my life completely upside down. It didn't matter to them, as long as it was to their convenience. How can they do that to another human being so easily? It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

I dropped my chin, leaning my head against my arm as a quiet sob pushed its way through my lips. They'd make sure I'd go to that university. They'd want to keep a close eye on me, a key witness to their case. If I refused, they'd use Forrest as their weapon. They always would, because they knew they could. They'd intimidate me by threatening him, and every single party involved, including myself, knew it would work every time. We were bound together in this. The feds thought this through, and they worked hard to close their loops. Our fates were decided the moment they chose to open this case, and the moment they realized we were of use to them.

The back door slammed and I looked over my shoulder, taking a breath and wiping my eyes when I saw Forrest. I wasn't expecting that. He left me to my own when I was troubled, since it made him uncomfortable. He never knew what to do. It made me angry to think that he finally figured it out. Now, when it wouldn't matter for much longer. He was doing everything right for once, at the worst possible time.

He stepped over the weeds and grass, and when he was close enough he reached for me. I pushed his arm away. "Don't touch me," I warned. If he was done with me, I wanted to be done with him. If he could give it all up so easily, then he didn't deserve my kindness any longer. I guess he didn't catch the hint because he tried again, and so I pushed him away, and shoved hard at his chest with both hands. "Don't touch me, Forrest," I said, this time louder.

His upper body swayed, but he stood his ground, a test of strength, and I wondered if he thought this was a game. I wasn't playing any kind of game. I didn't want to touch him. I didn't want to see him. But I did want to make him feel what I was feeling.

I pushed at him again, and he swayed. Then again, putting my whole body into it, and he took a step back. I grunted in frustration, my face flushing as my eyes stung and blurred. I balled my fist and struck him in the chest. I pushed him again and then struck him with my other fist. A sob escaped me, and then another, and I gasped for breath as I threw my fists blindly into the body in front of me. I hated him. I hated him, and I hoped he was hurting like I was.

Large, calloused hands, strong and familiar suddenly grasped my wrists at once. I cried out in anger, struggling to free myself. "Let go of me!" I sobbed, pushing and pulling in his grip. "Let go!" If he wouldn't release my arms, then I'd swing forward and make him hit himself. But it was to no avail, and I cried and cried as I resisted his grip, desperately longing to be free of him.

He forced my arms down and inward, elbows bending taut at my sides, and turned me around. He wrapped himself over me, a hulking shield, crossing my arms and holding them tightly to my chest. I tried to pull away, but he had me pinned to him, and the weight of him against my back had me dropping to my knees in the wet grass. He followed me down, and his grip did not lessen. I could feel his warmth all around me, so wonderfully unwelcomed. His breath in my ear, ragged with his effort to keep me still. His hold on me tight, but not painful. I lost myself.

"Shhh," I could hear, and felt him press his cheek to my hair. "Shhh, s'alright." His words were just air in my ear, but I heard them all the same.

"How can you say that?" My question was a stutter between gasping breaths, and it was left unanswered.

Forrest fell back onto his behind and took me with him. He straightened my legs out with his foot, and I could feel the water soak through my skirt onto my skin. He held me like that until my fits died, and my stiff, struggling muscles spent their energy and relaxed. When he released my arms, they dropped to my lap and stayed there. My mind was no longer a cacophony of bitter excuses and pointed fingers. Only one thought ran circles in my mind, over and over again until it numbed my insides.

I loved Forrest. I loved him more than anything in the world. And I was losing him.

* * *

_"[Forrest] felt unmoved by the news; he knew that they would come under his reach again. It wasn't vengeance he sought anyway, rather something more like a reckoning, a balance. It wasn't something you had to seek." _The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 78.

Hello! I was hoping to capture the essence of a confused mind here. I was hoping for Edna to be discombobulated and irrational. Because it is always only after a moment of torment that you realize, 'wow, I should've handled that a lot differently.' You don't think about what you say or do before it happens; you just feel. You feel a lot at once, and you don't have time to justify or analyze why you're thinking and feeling the way you do. I think Forrest would've stepped up to the plate on this one and been there for her, because he'd just made a huge decision on their part in the fate of their future, and he knew exactly what kind of impact it would have on her (tune in to next week's chapter...).

Here is my shameless self-promotion of my new Eames story! Aw yeah, I went ahead and did it. If you're interested, stop by and take a peek! Let me know your thoughts. I think it has potential to be one hell of an epic story. No subtlety on this one, we're going all out if we're diving into the world of business espionage and dream-share.

Thank you for your thoughts and your support, you lovely, lovely souls. I look forward to hearing what you have to say about this one, and I promise you that the rest of this story will not leave you nursing a broken heart after every chapter. Too much angst sucks the life out of a beautiful story. Without giving too much away, let's just say it's morning in America, folks.


	16. Letting Go

**Dance With Me**_  
_

****_-Letting Go-_

_July 1932_

There was a great sadness in all this. An injustice; men conquering men. Taking advantage of the weaknesses of others in a strive to launch themselves up the social ladder. In a desire to be loved as great men. When the conquered accepted their defeat, it was as if that suddenly defined them in all that they were. They'd been subjected to an authority greater than their own, and there wasn't any use trying to fight it. Not now, not ever again.

I was scheduled to leave for Charlottesville at the beginning of September, but I may as well have already been gone. The only reason I continued my lodging at the station was because Agent Lehman thought it'd look suspicious if I didn't. Forrest was done with me. And he made that real clear when he started spending his days up at the sawmill and most nights there, too. The station was left an empty shell of what it had been only a month ago. People came round once every two weeks to trade liquor, but it was only Everett left to make sure the property didn't disappear behind a thicket of tall grass and weeds. He tried to keep the inside as tidy as he could, but dust accumulated on everything and only grew thicker without Forrest's careful dedication to the cleanliness of each and every surface.

I spent as much time at the hospital as I could, coming in the early morning and leaving in the late hours of the night. I couldn't be on duty that long – the hospital couldn't afford it – so I stayed on my own time, cleaning spare rooms and reading the books on the shelves in the Doctor's office, lending some company to the patients who wanted for it. I don't think I'd seen Forrest's face in weeks. I mean, really seen it. He wasn't much more than a ghost floating around the property these days; the creak and clunk of footsteps on the floor, the shadow in the doorway in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes the smell of tobacco smoke would waft into my room and pull me out of sleep, but I'd be too nervous to see for myself if he was there. When I would finally gather the courage to leave my bed, it was because he'd be gone.

I wasn't really sure how I was supposed to be feeling about this whole thing. I wondered if this is what my mama felt like when my daddy up and died on her for no good reason. Nothing made sense. I was mad at God and mad at the world for setting me on a twisted, jagged path like this. I never killed anyone. I never cheated someone, never stole, never did anything I could think of that would have karma coming back to bite me like it was.

Sometimes I thought that this was Forrest's punishment for all the wrong he'd done in his lifetime. But Forrest was impenetrable, which meant all the torment thrown at him deflected back and sunk right into me. Franklin was beginning to feel like a strange place again, like it did when I first arrived, before I knew of Forrest Bondurant, and what he'd mean to me. It felt like I'd overstayed my welcome. The sun was still shining, but no birds were singing. I still woke every morning to a new day, but I didn't know what to do anymore with the time God was granting me.

I rose before dawn could spear the thinning night, still spinning with the heaviness of sleep as I climbed out of my bed in search of a shawl. The world was quiet, the air crisp with an early morning chill. I felt my way down the stairs in the darkness, managed to find the chain for the light, squinted against the glaring brightness after a tug. I set to brewing coffee, hands on my hips as I watched the liquid drip idly into the pot. I thought about fixing something to eat, but after some consideration found I wasn't all that hungry. I just wanted coffee.

On the bar in front of the grill rested a stack of loose leaf paper and a pen. I put those items there the night before, and they hadn't been moved since. My intention had been to write my affidavit – the statement that was the whole reason behind me having to leave this place. But last night, like many nights before, those pages were left empty of any words. It was like I'd forget how to form them, like I couldn't remember anything of my life. I'd have my facts and my memories strung together in a coherent, consecutive timeline. Then I'd sit down to put it all on paper and everything would fall apart. I couldn't remember why I ever ended up in Franklin or how I got mixed up with the Bondurants. It was a jumble of words and feelings and half-remembered events, and it always required a lot more energy than I was willing or able to put into it.

I slid onto a barstool, and set my coffee cup lightly on the counter as I looked down at the paper. This was it. If I wrote this damn statement – which for some reason would mean a whole lot more to everyone than I think I'll ever understand, if I wrote it, then it was all over for me. I'd sign it, I'd hand it over to Agent Lehman, and then I'd go.

It was already all over for me. That was becoming clearer with each passing day. There was absolutely no reason to be putting off the statement any longer. No hope that maybe, just maybe a miracle would rise in the prosecuting attorney's sudden desire to save me from my strife, and he'd find a way, albeit a tricky one but a way nonetheless, to keep me from having to testify to prove the Bondurants' legitimacy.

It was like finding an earring once dropped in the middle of the ocean. It just wasn't going to happen.

Agent Lehman told me of all the things I had to include in my statement. I had to state my full name and my age, where I was from and why I came to Rocky Mount. What I did here and how I ended up meeting the Bondurants. How and why I started housing at the station. What a normal day was like at the Station. I couldn't flat out say the boys weren't involved in any racket, and I couldn't give my opinion about the kind of men they were. I had to be real specific in my observations without being poetic. "No adjectives," Agent Lehman said, and I repeated it to myself in an internalized mantra.

It was easier to keep going once getting started. I wasn't sure how long it needed to be, but I supposed it didn't really matter. Agent Lehman told me it'd be typed up with a type writer and distributed to all the officials for the trial. It'd be chopped up and summarized and come the actual day when I had to testify in court, I would only be asked questions based on what I said in my statement. So I remained real vague in the recounts of my acquaintance with the Bondurant brothers.

I was lost in retrospection, reflecting on dates and events and scribbling them all down onto paper. It was only when I paused to take a sip of my coffee did I realize there were footsteps falling outside on the porch. I froze and listened, my heart jumping painfully as I knew there could only be one person who'd be here so early in the morning. I wasn't ready to see him. I had a statement I was finally able to write; there wasn't any finishing it if he was here.

Keys jingled and the bolt on the door slid open. I heard the door open, followed by the creek of the screen door, but I didn't hear any footsteps.

In my head I'm a strong woman. In my head, I can look at a man I loved and I can smile and be courteous because that's what a strong woman does. I can acknowledge that our time together was over, but that didn't make him any less of the man I fell in love with, and I can still appreciate him for everything he was. Forrest was a _good man. _Wasn't anyone's fault what was happening to us; just an inconvenient coincidence coupled with bad timing. And as a strong woman, I could accept that.

But that all went away because I knew he was standing there. Because my heart was broken and part of me _did _blame him even though I knew, I knew he'd change all this if he could. Maybe I blamed him for letting me love him so easy. Maybe I didn't think that'd ever happen, but then it did, and now I was left with this tearing in my heart, little by little when I relived my time with him and imagined a future that had been so real only weeks ago. It all seemed so good, too good, but then maybe I was only remembering what I wanted to. Things were always sweeter when they were lost.

Boots clunked dully across the boards of the floor and the screen door shut with a slam. The scratched ink blurred on the paper in front of me as I clutched the pen tighter in my hands. He'd stepped behind the counter, pulled a mug from the cupboard to pour himself a cup of coffee. I kept my eyes on the paper. I couldn't look at him. In my head I was strong, but not now, not when he was there, when the hurt was so fresh, and I had to acknowledge that he wasn't mine to look at anymore, or touch, or hold, or anything.

I tried to focus on my writing again, but I couldn't. The words were gone, and he was there. I glanced up, but averted my gaze again with a wince. Forrest stood with his back turned to me, gazing out the window over the sink. His head dipped, wide shoulders hunched, stretching the fabric of his sweater as he sipped on his coffee. I bit back the urge to call out to him. To speak his name, or utter a quiet greeting – anything that might make him turn to me. I wanted to. I wanted to hear him speak sweet words to me, to touch me, to tell me that somehow everything would be all right.

But he wouldn't. Forrest was stubborn as a mule, and once he'd made up his mind, there wasn't any changing that. I guess the trick to letting someone go was to start early. He made it look so easy. I wondered when he'd started with Maggie; when he started with me.

If I was as smart as they said I am, I would've gone. I would've left that room to save me the suffocating ache of being in the same space as him. His presence was a sensation all in its own, wrapping around me, an inundation of memories and desire and a little regret. Out of all the men in the world, I had to love Forrest. A quiet, humble lover. A protective, prevailing force of a man. He was my rock, my shield, my pillar of strength. He kept me appreciating the things that mattered most. He made me want only for the simple things in life. He kept my world quiet.

Footsteps traveled around to the other side of the counter and stopped again behind me. I shook with the effort to keep still, muscles aching with the stress of his proximity. I stared at the paper, but only registered a haze of color, and I bit the inside of my cheek to remind myself to breathe. I wondered what he was doing. If he was looking at me, or trying to read what I had wrote. If he was turned to me at all, or rather was surveying the room casually as he continued to sip at his coffee.

Then he touched me. My whole body tingled at the lightness of his touch. He rested his hand at the back of my head, gently stroked down my hair to the nape of my neck. I shut my eyes tight, fighting to stay still. But I couldn't. I turned in the stool and faced him for the first time in weeks. His hand still reached for me, eyes drooping and clouded with some unknown emotion. He didn't break his gaze with me, hell I don't think he even blinked once. He exhaled a deep huff through his nose, then took a small step forward to stroke my hair once again.

I wanted to know what was going through his head. I wanted to know why he decided to touch me and if he ever considered what that might do to me. But the questions were stunted in my brain, and there wasn't a chance that I was going to be able to vocalize a single one of them. His calloused fingers hooked the back of my neck in a solid grip and pulled me forward. My body obeyed his command while my mind was far away, and I felt as he pressed his lips to my forehead, along my hairline.

I slid off the stool and folded into him. I buried my face into his chest and wrapped my arms around him, hooking them together with my hands behind his back in what I hoped was an unbreakable grip. After a moment, I felt his palm slide down my back, the other hand rested gently against my head. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't. I could only hold him to me, and pray that this very moment would be worth a lifetime of stolen moments.

Dawn broke across the sky, and soon rays of morning light shined through the windows, warming the day and waking excited families of birds from their slumber in the trees outside. We never moved, and wouldn't move, not until the low, melodic tones of Everett's gospel signaled his arrival as he hiked into the lot.

* * *

"_What fascinated me about [Forrest] was the contrast between his calmness and his internal torment." –Tom Hardy_

_Hello! Sorry about the delay on this chapter. Would've had it out last night, but you know...Thanksgiving...and then Black Friday. I'm a slave to the sales. Damn you, Corporate America!_

_We're coming up on the final chapters. I don't know how many more there will be, but I have the end all planned out. In the next chapter, I'm going to do something to Forrest that is technically by the book's timeline supposed to happen the following year (in 1933). I know that annoys some people, to stray from a proper timeline, it annoys me too...but it's necessary!_

_All right. Let me know what you think about this one. I know it was sad, but I tried to at least make it pretty. Hope it worked! Love you guys :)_


	17. Full Circle

**Dance With Me**

_-The Irony in a Full Circle-_

You can tell when there's an emergency at the hospital. It's a distinct noise. The honks of horns, the screech of tires. The alarmed shouts of men without direction, calling for someone, anyone to come outside and tell them what to do, where to go. Even the calmest of men became a frenzied mess when they thought someone was going to die on their hands. They always tried to get that evil off of them and onto us as quick as possible.

I wasn't aware of any emergency until men were yelling over each other in the hall. I looked up from my book to the Cook, and he shrugged at me, turning to continue stirring the contents inside a steaming pot. I dog-eared the page I was reading and closed the book, intending to only satisfy my curiosity as I was still on break. I pushed myself to a standing position, and crept over to the door to peer down the hall.

The shouting was between two men, though there were several onlookers in clay-stained undershirts and dirtied slacks. The Doctor was red-faced and spitting as he warned Howard to stay the hell out of his way and let him do his job. Howard retorted with booming authority that no one was keeping him from his brother.

I rushed down the hall as the Doctor began to back away from Howard. "What happened?" I demanded, my heart racing, not giving a damn about those witnessing my blatant concern. "Where's Forrest?"

"He's been wheeled into the operating room." I moved to hurry past him, but the Doctor caught me by the arm and held on tight. "Edie, no. You're gonna stay out here with Howard."

"No I'm not." I was going to help him with whatever it was he needed help with. I always did. Forrest was hurt; I fixed him.

"Yes, you are," the Doctor said, peering down at me over his nose with warning in his eyes. "Howard."

Howard growled because he knew he'd lost this fight on my behalf, and I felt hands grasp my shoulders as the Doctor turned away. "The hell is this?" I asked, dizzy with fear and confusion, and I tried to shrug Howard off, but his clutch only tightened. "What the hell happened to him? You tell me!"

"An accident," the Doctor said. "You take care of her, Howard."

"Wasn't no fuckin' accident," Howard bit. His fingers dug into my shoulders and I winced. "If he dies Doc, I swear to God I'll kill ya myself."

The Doctor waved off the empty threat and disappeared down the hall in a run. I shoved the hands off of me and attempted to escape after him, but Howard caught me by my apron strings. I turned around and hit him, but he ignored the blow. "You go find that stupid motherfucker, and you bring him right to me," he told the two dirty men that had been looking on. They left without a word and Howard watched them go. I hit him again to grab his attention. He groaned and dragged me over to a chair, pushed me down into it and told me to stay.

"Howard, if you don't tell me what happened-"

"Edie shut your fuckin' mouth for a second, all right? Just shut up." Howard paced back and forth in front of me, smearing the dirt and sweat on his face. "I'll tell ya what – goddamn bastard wasn't even s'pposed to be there. Let loose a load o' logs at the mill, rolled right over Forrest. Stupid sonuva bitch didn't even move." He stopped pacing, and sank into the chair beside me, as though his legs suddenly gave underneath him. "Ain't never seen nothin' like that before," he said, and his eyes were clouded and unfocused with the memory. I couldn't breathe. "No fuckin' way he's gettin' outta this one."

"You take that back, Howard," I said. His jaw worked as he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. "Damn it, you take it back."

"Didn't you just hear me, Edna?" he snapped. "Fuckin' logs. Knocked him down and rolled him flat as a fuckin' pancake! One after the other – couldn't even see him under, shoulda seen…" he trailed off, shoved the hat from his head and grasped his hair in tight handfuls. "Can't survive that."

I tried to picture what Howard had seen. What Forrest had seen. Wasn't anyone looking on? Logs dropping and rolling like thunder, quaking the ground. Wasn't any subtle thing. How fast were they coming? Were there shouts of warning? Why the hell didn't Forrest get out of the way? Just stood there and let himself be taken under the weight and speed of an unexpected demise. One by one, the thick bodies of matured trunks rolled over him, and he was trapped underneath, bones shattering, insides bursting. Would've pressed the life right out of him. Wouldn't have been much more than a bloody lump of something after that kind of assault.

My stomach churned. I wanted to vomit, and I brought my hand to my mouth in a fight to keep my insides settled. It was awful, so awful. My skin was on fire; an unbearable chill pricked at me. I couldn't see a damn thing. I didn't realize I'd stood until Howard pulled me back down onto the chair. The heap of bone and flesh and blood that may have once resembled Forrest burned in my mind. My Forrest. I wanted to ask Howard what he had looked like, if they'd checked to see if he was conscious or breathing at all as they brought him in. But I didn't want to know.

So much blood. There had to have been. His face would have been shattered. Fractures throughout his body would have pierced through his skin. What wasn't bleeding on the outside was surely bleeding on the inside. I glanced over at Howard, but stopped myself short of examining him by shutting my eyes tight. I wouldn't like what I'd be noticing for the first time. It would break me and devastate me and snuff the light out of my world. But I looked anyway.

Deep pools of dark red soaked through Howard's shirt near the brim of his pants. Smears of the stuff colored his legs, as though he'd tried to wipe his brother's blood from his hands, but it still stained between his fingers and along his forearms. It only took a few pounds of pressure to fracture a human bone. My imagination betrayed my composure as it ran astray over the possibilities of the damage a succession of tree logs could inflict on the human body. I bent forward, choking on a gag as I begged my mind to rid me of such images.

I'd kill him myself, the bastard that cut the ties on those logs and let them loose on Forrest. Forrest minded his own unless his attention was required, and I couldn't imagine him ever doing something so bad that someone would wish death upon him in such a cruel way. I covered my face with my hands, digging my fingertips into my skin until it hurt. I shook with fear and with fury, and I wanted to scream. So badly, I wanted to scream. I wanted the world to know the torment of my loss; I wanted them to feel my wrath. I wanted to moan and wail for hours on end, like many women did in cultures around the world, unashamed in their mourning, because I was a woman wronged.

I gasped quietly, digging my nails into my scalp. God didn't want us to be together, did he? It wasn't enough to separate us by time and distance. He needed us in different worlds.

"Jack." I lifted my head and turned to find Howard doing the same. "Where's Jack?"

"Shit…" Howard hissed to himself. He moved forward to the edge of his seat, looked like he was about to stand as he stretched to look down the hall. Then he settled back into the chair and rubbed the corners of his eyes. "Someone'll tell him. I ain't leavin'."

Jack did come, though I don't know how long it took him to get here. Felt like hours, but no one was checking. I wasn't getting back to my shift. I was done working for the day, done working for the rest of my time in Franklin and didn't care what anyone had to say about it. The Doctor would understand, and his opinion was the only one that mattered. Howard and I stayed put in our chairs, filling the space around us with smoke from one cigarette after another.

Jack relayed the news that Whit Boitnott, who I learned was the bastard responsible for this whole mess, had already been arrested. Forrest fired Whit years ago from the sawmill, but was rehired by the manger that ran the mill when Forrest wasn't around. He didn't know any better. Certainly didn't know Whit Boitnott was a man capable of holding a nasty grudge for so long. He was claiming it was all an accident, but his story had already been countered by witnesses who saw him cut the straps binding those logs. He'd been out to kill Forrest.

The sun was setting by the time the Doctor came to find us. We'd sat and watched many of the day nurses leave for the night, gave quiet greetings to the few overnight ladies that fluttered in. The cicadas returned to their hiding holes and the only sounds around for a while was the soft clink of pots and the travelling melody from the Cook's radio as he prepared supper for the patients. Howard remained a silent statue save for the brief moments when he'd lift a burning cigarette to his lips. Jack, who sat to my other side, gnawed his fingernails till they bled, his dark eyes burning with an incessant stream of undecipherable thought.

The Doctor had removed his white coat, and I knew that was for my sake. No telling what it would've looked like after working on Forrest for so long. He stopped in front of the three of us, and though he tried to acknowledge us equally, it was my hands he took as he bent to his knees in front of me. "He's not in good shape," he said to me, then moved his gaze between the two brothers. "But he's alive for now."

I didn't hear 'dead'; didn't hear 'gone', didn't hear 'passed'. I heard 'alive', and that was enough to bring a premature relief and a heavy wave of tears as I squeezed the Doctor's hands tightly. A sob escaped me and I blindly lifted his hands in mine to kiss his knuckles. He was gifted, that doctor. A miracle healer. I bet Forrest would've been dead a long time ago if he hadn't been under the care of Doctor Joseph Andrews.

"There was severe intra-abdominal bleeding, but we went in and stopped it. We cauterized the areas of trauma and flushed him out. He's fractured just about every damn bone in his body, so we set them right, got him wrapped in splints and encased in plaster. He isn't awake. I don't know if he will wake. He's breathing on his own, but I can't promise it'll stay like that."

I clung to the Doctor, kept his hands clutched tightly to me. When he stood he pulled his hands free and stroked my hair, bent to give my forehead a kiss, and told Jack and Howard to take me home.

Forrest didn't die that night, or the night after. He opened his eyes on the third day, but was unresponsive to the Doctor. We were all unconvinced that he was brain dead, so we let him be for a while. I assumed the role of his caretaker because wasn't anyone capable of doing the job I could do. My stomach knotted itself and hadn't unraveled for days. I sat at Forrest's bedside through the day and slept in that chair through the night and I didn't care, didn't _care _who saw me do it. If he was going to make a noise in the middle of the night, I'd be the first to hear it. If he needed something, I would be the one to decipher what that was. Forrest was mine. As long as I was here, he was mine to take care of.

On the fifth day he accepted food. On the eighth day he smiled at me. I prayed he'd talk by the eleventh day.

Forrest was a sorry sight; a statue of plaster, holes cut for seeing and eating, two stubs of straws up his nose to help him breathe better. He lay straight on his back, eyes to the ceiling, limbs bound to metal rods as though the confines of his cast weren't sufficient enough to keep him still. His lips were chapped, eyes dulled with silent pain. I knew he was miserable, that he was hot and itching, aching, trapped inside the hell of his healing body.

I sat at the edge of his bed, searching his eyes and imagining him lying there as the man I knew. Warm and soft, hard and defined. Flesh. Muscle. Whole. A beautiful human. I imagined the feel of his hands on my skin, in a slow and gentle search as they always did. His voice a blessing of a sound, a low hum that vibrated through me each time he spoke. "Say something," I encouraged him. He blinked, and his eyes soon fluttered to a close. I dipped my fingertips into the pitcher of water at his bedside, and brought them cool and dripping to rub over his cracked lips. "Talk to me, Forrest."

"How's he doing?"

I didn't acknowledge the unwelcomed voice at first, taking the time to rub the back of my hand over my eyes before I turned to the arrived presence. Agent Lehman leaned against the doorsill, careful to keep his distance and his patience as he waited for me. "I don't know," I said honestly. Forrest had opened his eyes again, and was watching me as I traced the outline of his lips.

"There's a trial scheduled for Boitnott next week," Lehman said, shifting his weight a little.

"That was quick."

"It's a small offense."

I turned to him, but bit my tongue. This was all so impersonal to him. He had no idea who these people were – who I was. He only knew that he had a job to do. "I don't think I'll ever understand the law," I said stiffly, returning my gaze to Forrest as I moved my hand along the plaster over his chest.

"Edna." When I turned, Lehman had removed the hat from his head, holding it over his heart as he regarded me. He looked like he was going to say something. He faltered, and inhaled, but eventually relented and dropped his efforts. "I'll be outside."

I smiled down at Forrest. I didn't know if he could see or hear Agent Lehman, but there was trouble in his eyes and I didn't want it to be there.

"You mean everything to me," I told him, keeping my voice quiet. "It's kinda silly, but it's true. You'd think I was born to take care of you. I don't think I'd mind that much at all, if I was."

My face started screwing up, so I covered his eyes real quick before he could see. I patted my cheeks with my free hand and released a slow breath. I wondered if he knew what today was; if he remembered. This day had been hanging over me for the past few months. It was here now. I thought it'd feel worse.

I suppose it was like a slow burn. A pulse of pain. It hurt while it was happening, and it would burn like hell after, but I was in that lull, that shock after the heat where I tried to convince myself that it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. When I drew my hand back, his eyes had closed and didn't open. I forced myself to stand and look around the room. A room Forrest would be in for months, healing, waiting. Never mind the process of learning to stand, to walk, grasp, wave, write again. Recovery was a long time coming for Forrest, and I wouldn't be there to guide him through it.

Grays flashed up at me when I took a final glance at him, and I gave him the sweetest smile I could muster. Something that'd put him at ease; something I hoped he'd remember. "Go to sleep now, Forrest," I told him. "Jack's gonna be here later with his Bible, and you know he likes you to listen." He blinked slowly, then blinked again, and his lids folded in a gentle close.

I turned away from him, gathering my sweater off the back of the chair, gathering my dignity, my courage, my strength, leaving my heart and soul behind as I strolled with a high chin and dry eyes to the door. When I stepped out into the hall I grabbed for the luggage resting against the wall outside the door. It was heavy as lead, but I pulled it up anyway, breath unsteady with the weight, and I told myself to walk.

* * *

_"Men who saw it said he didn't even make an attempt to get out of the way; rather Forrest flipped his hat aside with a cursory movement and turned to face the rolling tons of wood that came for him." - The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 278._

Would've had this out sooner, but you know, I've been watching Lawless nonstop since Tuesday. Proud owner of this wonderful movie! So yeah...another sad one, sorry guys. But don't hate me yet! This story will be wrapped up in the next 2-3 chapters, and I have planned for it a swift, justified, and graceful ending.

I'll have a long-winded statement of appreciation to you beautiful readers on the final chapter, but I do want to thank you again, as I have for the past...sixteen (?) chapters. You've helped me mold this story and kept me driven and focused toward an end. I'm beyond words (right now, there will be words in the final chapter) in describing my joy and appreciation for your feedback and support, and your mutual love of Forrest and the Bondurant brothers. I promise, promise that I will do them justice, and I hope I've been able to do that thus far. Thank you for reading, and as always I am so excited to hear what you have to say about this chapter.


	18. The Letter

**Dance With Me**

****_-Why Should I Be Afraid to Die? I Belong To You-_

Forrest sat scowling in a wheelchair, robe wrapped around him and a cigar between his teeth. The nurses assigned to him thought some fresh air might do him good. They wheeled him out to the porch and left him to sit in the cold. Wouldn't be all that surprised if they'd forgotten about him. He couldn't bring himself to care too much if they did.

It'd been two days since they cut him out of his prison, but it hadn't made much of a difference. His legs were jelly. He could bend his elbows but raising an arm felt like lifting a pallet of bricks, and striking a match was the most difficult thing he'd done in months. The winter chill nipped against his skin, which had turned an unpleasant shade of white and flaked in the aftermath of all that plaster. Inactivity had eaten away his muscle mass and placed an awful swelling in his joints, from his fingers to his toes. Sitting upright made him light-headed, and his back ached with the effort to hold himself up, but he endured. All of it was better than getting back into that goddamn bed.

Whit Boitnott was a dim-witted little bug, with a temper worse than Howard's and the slow competency of a stunted man who'd never set foot inside a church or a schoolhouse a day in his life. But Forrest did have to acknowledge and appreciate that Whit had been quick to see an opportunity and seize it as a means to right his personal wrongs. He'd fired Whit years back because he was lazy and his work was sloppy, and wasn't any training going to improve the work of a man who showed no interest in learning. In fact, he'd forgotten who the man was at all, and it took him a long while of stressing his memory to put a face to the name of the person so intent on killing him. When he did remember, well it was just a matter of deciding how to go about the situation next.

He'd had a long time to mull that over. Three months is a long time. He kept track of the days in his head, in a mental tally on a chalkboard in his imagination. He'd gaze at the ceiling and imagine little black dashes, crossing every five days, circling significant days, or weeks. A birthday. A scheduled run. When the bills were due. September 3rd had a big old star next to it. That was the day Edna left.

He remembered everything up until that first log – pretty, it was, twenty feet of magnificent, sturdy, healthy oak – tumbled on down with a trembling bounce and struck him in the knees. He was sent to the ground instantly, and by the mercy of God taken into darkness and oblivion. He was a little surprised when he woke. Part of him thought that the bastard had really done him in, but damned if he died by another man's hand.

He was certain he'd find Whit Boitnott and break him. There wasn't any way around that; the man had sealed his fate the second he cut those binds. He would shatter his arms and his legs, beat his chest and face until the man choked on his own blood. He had thorough punishment planned for him, and was genuinely pleased to hear that Carter Lee ordered Boitnott's sentence to be reduced to three weeks with good behavior for reckless endangerment. He'd be out, and they'd find him. Forrest could deliver his punishment and the world could return to a necessary balance.

But Edna left. And when she did, the world spun off its axis and drifted aimlessly in outer space. He couldn't right that with a good dose of retribution. No fist was going to fix that. Every inch of him burned as bones reattached themselves and new layers of skin grew. When his bruised lungs stretched with every breath, it was like tearing flesh. The constant itch was maddening in the tight sweat-soaked confines, and he'd have taken a cut throat a hundred times over that hell. But he would've spent years in that plaster suit if it would've kept him from having to watch her leave. That was a pain all in its own. Incomparable. Unbearable. She was gone.

Sometimes, if he lay real still and stared at the ceiling, he couldn't feel anything. No ache. No burn. No pulse of white-hot pain that made him want to kick and writhe his way out of the prison. And that frustrated him because he needed to feel something. Something in the skin. Something in the bones. Something to distract him from the unrelenting sink of his heart and that face which had carved itself into his brain.

It always hurt less when she was there. When she was nagging him for moving ways that he shouldn't. When she was telling him he was stupid, dumb, an impatient child. When he fell on his head and was brought into her care a second time, he remembered waking to her voice. How his neck ached and he wished he could twist and stretch the knots from his shoulders. But her hands and her voice kept his eyes closed and his body still. She wondered how he always managed to hurt himself. She wondered why he wasn't dead yet. She was a funny thing. He stayed slack when she turned him on his side as she complained about the rising price of beef in town. She lifted his arm and she squeezed his shoulders a few times, rubbing along his neck like it was a part of her routine. It was like she knew he'd been hurting. He didn't hurt anymore after that.

Edna wanted him to talk. The day she left, she wanted him to say something to her. But he couldn't. He'd withdrawn deep inside himself to focus on the pain. To focus on healing. He spent all his energy day after day on these efforts, and words were far from forming on his tongue. He listened to her though, and he watched her. He memorized her eyes, her hair, her mouth. The length of her fingers, her legs, the circumference of her waist, the curve of her hips. He counted the number of teeth in her smile and burned it into his memory so he'd never forget it. He wouldn't stop looking at her when she wanted him to sleep, and she tried singing him a lullaby.

It was so awful he had to smile. Her voice was song enough; conversation greater than any melody on the radio.

But he knew she was leaving, and on that day he couldn't talk to her. He thought if he opened his mouth, if he formed words and felt the vibrations of his own voice, his heart would burst.

Forrest's scowl deepened as he flicked the stump of his cigar off the porch into the dirt. He looked out over the empty road and wondered if this was it for him. He'd heal. He'd go back to the station, he'd tidy up at the sawmill. He'd continue running his business, looking out for Jack, looking out for Howard. He'd sell the plot along the lake because there wasn't any sense in keeping it. No woman to build a house for. Wasn't any other woman for him.

Anxiousness thumped somewhere in the tight confines of his chest, but he swallowed it down. He had a long life to live. No use in making it harder on himself than it already was.

He rolled his shoulders back and tried to sit a little straighter, watching as a shining new Ford rolled up the hill. "You all right out here, Forrest?" He didn't know whose voice that belonged to and he didn't turn to look. He kept his mouth shut as he followed the path of the vehicle, and he heard when whoever had come to check up on him tutted their tongue and turned to retreat inside once more.

The Ford slowed and turned off the road, crawling into the hospital lot. It braked to a stop in a clearing between two vehicles, and the engine shuttered and died. Forrest looked on because there wasn't anywhere else to focus his attention. A stumpy man emerged from between the cars, tightening a scarf around his neck and shoved the ends inside his long coat. Forrest scoffed a little as the man began to waddle his way up to the hospital, and he removed his gaze, looking out over the road once more.

"Mr. Bondurant? Are you Forrest Bondurant?" Forrest scowled down at the little man, who had somehow come to stand in front of him. He breathed from his mouth, puffs of vapor streaming from him, and as he removed his hat in a gesture of greeting, it revealed a severely balding head. Forrest didn't have to confirm his identity; the man already knew. He stepped forward and held his hand out as he said, "How are you sir?"

Forrest sat a head higher than this stranger because of the porch, and didn't hesitate to make the man feel inferior. He glanced down at his outstretched hand and deliberately turned his head, focusing on a cluster of spruces off to the right. "Maybe I should introduce myself," the man said with careful enunciation, like he was nervous and trying hard to hide it behind professionalism. Edna did that sometimes, though her act fell short quickly. "My name is Clarence Acril. I'm the prosecuting attorney on behalf of Virginia for the bootlegging conspiracy round these parts."

This garnered Forrest's attention, and he cursed his immobility because he would've strangled the man right there if he could. This small, weak lump of a man was the cause of Edna's suffering. He somehow possessed the power to tear two worlds apart, and that's exactly what he did. Forrest grimaced as Acril rubbed his hands over his arms and shuddered, huffing out a shaky breath. "It's cold as hell out here. Do you want to go inside?"

"Nope."

It was a moment before there was a response. "All right," Acril said. "Listen, Mr. Bondurant. I've been meaning to come out here and meet you myself for the past few months, but I've been buried in work for this trial. It seems your little accident was a gateway to a whole lot more than I could've ever expected."

"My accident," Forrest mumbled to himself quietly.

"Listen," Acril said, his tone forceful, like he was hurrying to make a point. "I was hoping to keep this trial small. The state brings forth a couple few key witnesses, we make our case, and we convict the commonwealth attorney and the deputies involved in the racket. But the situation has altered quite a bit with Mr. Carter Lee deliberately lowering the charge on your assaulter. I can't use you anymore. Well, I can –" he corrected himself, shifting his weight as he quickly strung his sentences together. "Just not how I planned before. I gotta say, I was trying to make this as easy as possible on myself, but I went ahead and reached out to the surrounding counties, just to see what I could find. Floyd and Roanoke and such. I have a growing list of about two hundred names willing to speak against the law enforcement of this area."

Forrest's gaze shifted down to the attorney, brow furrowing a little further. Somewhere inside him he knew what this toad was trying to get at, but it hadn't registered with him yet, and it wore his patience thin. "Make your point, Mister," he said.

"My point is your legitimacy is no longer in question." Acril paused a moment to withdraw an envelope from his coat pocket, holding it delicately between gloved fingers. "I've been working closely with Agent Lehman – I know you've spoke with him before. It seems the issue of your legitimacy has come by as a bit of a personal problem for you. I was hoping a more intimate trial would make for a greater case, but I suppose strength in numbers is the more appropriate approach here. I want to apologize for my previous indiscretion, and I'd like to make it right."

Forrest didn't say anything. He looked out over the road as a car passed, but his attention was drawn back to the attorney. He wasn't done speaking, and that was a shame. The man liked to talk, but Forrest hated listening. He bet the man could've said his piece in five words or less, but all he heard was rabble. Fluff. Bullshit. That's all a lawyer knew how to spew.

"Look, it sounds like Miss Ellsworth was a sweet woman, and I'm sorry to have caused her any pain." Forrest's muscles burned with the urge to strike him for speaking her name, but he watched as Acril held up the envelope. "This is a letter relieving her from her obligation to testify, and informing her that the bureau has ceased funding of her education. I can mail this to her myself, or I can leave it for you to deliver when you can."

He hated ultimatums. Picking and choosing between options he didn't lay out for himself. He wouldn't say a word to this man. He wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of his forgiveness for tearing his world apart for no goddamn reason. Because it came as a convenience to him, the lazy son of a bitch. The solution to the problem that felt unsolvable lay with the words of those across county lines all this time, and it only took a lawyer's proactivity to find that out.

Months of Edna's tears. Feeling like her world was shattered, and he, wanting so hard to hold her up when his knees had already bent and crippled. They really thought she had to go, and stay gone. She really did go. But she could come back.

Forrest tried moving his legs, but only his feet twitched. He suppressed a growl, and kept his gaze away from the man who had overstayed his welcome. He'd never felt so impatient to heal in his life. To move, and stand, and walk. To get to Edna, and bring her home.

"I'll leave this with a nurse," Acril said. Forrest fixed his eyes on the small man, and held his stare. He hoped that one day he suffered the way Edna had. He hoped he saw the consequences of his lack of attention and care to the cases he organized. And he hoped that he would be the one to bring that great justice to him. Acril blinked and Forrest grimaced, turning his head with a small grunt to face the road as the attorney collected himself and preceded up the steps and through the door. When he was gone, Forrest's breath shallowed, and he tried shifting his legs again.

He wouldn't have to sell that lot, after all. His girl was coming home.

* * *

_"Love is doing something you don't want to do for someone you don't particularly like at that moment." -Tom Hardy_

_Ayayay, a bit late, but not to bad, I think. I put some hard labor into this one. It did not come easy. I'm going to warn you now, I don't know if I'll have any new chapters next week. I've got some ugly Finals that are fast approaching, between that and work I'm pretty sure the life will be sucked right out of me. But I promise, and here is my promise now: the next time I post a chapter, it will be THREE chapters, one new for each of my stories. Kay thank you. That is my promise, my goal, and my motivation. Motivate me, lovely readers!_

_Tell me what you think about this! I know you'll have some words. And I'm so sorry if I made you cry (no I'm not), it wasn't my intention (yes it was). Your kind words absolutely brighten my world. I'm so happy to see so many enjoying this story, and having it resonate with you. Thank you, thank you for your support. I can't wait to see what you'll say :)_


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